


Reverse Psychology

by sadistically_sweet



Series: The Adventures of 'Little' Sherlock and 'Daddy' John. [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ...and he's a bit of a manipulative bastard, Age Play, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Feeding, Gratuitous 'Hobbit' references, M/M, Sherlock has a heart, Spanking, Switching, The Feels!..., Tickling, Wetting, implied sex, slight D/s if you squint a little
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember when John made the offhand suggestion about Sherlock being 'Daddy' for a day?...Well, Sherlock does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One- John Opens His Blasted Mouth

“No, absolutely _not_.”

“John…”

“I said ‘no’.”

“It was your idea, John.”

“First off, I was talking out my arse, and second…no.”

“I think it would be a fine experiment in making us appreciate our positions more.”

“I already appreciate being your ‘Daddy’.”

An exasperated sigh. “But you don’t understand, John! I want to know what the role reversal feels like!”

“How about ‘HELL no’, do you understand that???”

“ _Jaawwwwwnnnn…_!”

John finally gave up on putting a stop to the conversation and closed his laptop a little harder than necessary, propping his elbow on the arm of his chair and balancing his chin in his hand, glaring at the detective sprawled on the sofa. “Whinging certainly isn’t helping you prove your point, is it?”

Sherlock glared right back and then narrowed his eyes, studying him.

“What?”

“You’re scared,” the other man replied.

John snorted.

“You are!” Almost accusingly.

John held up a finger. “One, I’m _not_ scared, and two, even if I was, and I’m _not_ ,” he paused, making sure Sherlock was paying attention. “But _if_ I was…could you blame me?”

Sherlock sat up, looking offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not exactly prime parenting material, mate!”

The man let out an indignant squawk. “I think I’d be an exemplary father…!” he argued.

It was Johns’ turn to gape at him. “You told a four year old to ‘shut up’ in the middle of the shop!”

Sherlocks’ hand gave a dismissive little flutter. “He’d been whinging and crying over sweets for ten minutes; someone had to say it!”

“I had to hold a very angry, very _large_ woman back!”

Sherlock huffed and flopped back into his spot, crossing his arms and sulking. “It’s not my fault she couldn’t control her _spawn_ …”

John pinched the bridge of his nose; the irony was almost palpable. “They throw fits; that’s what children do, Sherlock…that’s what _you_ do.”

The other man face immediately went blank, not having a comeback for that one; John was right, after all. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed…his ‘thinking’ pose.

John merely watched for a few minutes, and was just about to flip his computer back open when Sherlock reopened his eyes.

“So, help me,” he said, staring straight ahead into the empty fireplace, his voice low and calm now.

John followed suit and leaned forward himself, elbows on his knees. “Help with what?”

Sherlock's eyes shifted over to him. “Help show me how to be a better Daddy, like you.”

Whatever John had expected, it certainly wasn’t that; the sentiment hit him like a brick wall and he felt some of his resolve slip. “But you’ve seen how I am as ‘Daddy’, I’ve already given you an example,” he countered, taking on the same even, calming tone.

“I have,” Sherlock agreed. “But not from _your_ side. I want to know what it’s like for _you_.” Now he was becoming insistent. “So, either you switch with me, just this once, or I borrow one of Mrs. Hudsons’ grandchildren and go by trial and error.”

“Absolutely not, no,” John said, leaning back and crossing his legs. He was beginning to feel like a broken record. “No,” he said again, because honestly, there was never such a thing as repeating yourself _too_ many times with the detective. “No real kids; not for one of your experiments.”

Sherlock frowned, “This is more of a test rather than an experiment…”

John shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, just…just no kids, not with our whole,” he waved his hand, struggling for the right word, “arrangement. It would just be too weird; people would think we were…I dunno, deviants or something.”

Sherlock curled his lip into a sneer and scoffed. “First off,” he said holding up a finger in a perfect imitation of John, “we _are_ deviants; sexual deviants are those that _deviate_ from ‘normal’ sexual patterns-there is nothing _normal_ about us, John…you obviously meant ‘perverts’.”

John rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t argue; when the man was right, he was right.

“And two,” he continued, holding up another long, tapered finger, “No one knows _except for_ Mrs. Hudson and Molly, and they know we’re not pedophiles.”

The doctor couldn’t help but cringe at that word and all of its unpleasant connotations. “I know that, but it’s just…if it was literally just babysitting, fine, but not for what you want to do; it would just be off.”

“Then _help_ me!” Sherlock insisted again, taking on that usual edge of desperation that always crept its way into his voice when he was trying to explain something that made perfect sense to him but was flying over everyone else's heads.

John made a huffing noise in his throat and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at that _face_. This whole conversation was ludicrous; the very idea of Sherlock being ‘Daddy’ for once, and he mentally punched himself for ever putting the notion in the man's head.

And what’s worse…John was actually considering it.

Turning back, he fully expected to be met with Sherlock's ‘pouty face’—the one that he always pulled to manipulate the hell out of him; John just couldn’t resist it-but no, the other man hadn’t budged. He was still in his ‘thinking’ state, simply watching the doctor with a carefully blank expression.

The lack of manipulation was what struck John the most…apparently, Sherlock was taking this rather seriously.

John groaned and shifted uncomfortably; just imagining the shift in dynamic this would bring, however temporary, was weird. He’d always assumed the ‘dominant’ role in relationships; sometimes in subtle ways, others in not-so-subtle ways, but that’s just the way it always worked out…and the fact that he’d be submitting to another _man_ , even if it was the man he was currently infatuated with, was a tough pill to swallow.

But on the other hand…now that Sherlock had taken his little seed of a comment and cultivated it into a full-blown idea, he couldn’t honestly say he wasn’t a tiny bit curious.

An image flitted through his mind; he was straddling Sherlock's lap in nothing but a pair of white y-fronts, his hands clasped behind his head, the other man fully clothed and holding him up with one arm around his back, bracing him, while the other hand took him out of his pants and slowly stroked him off. He could just hear that rich, baritone voice enveloping him now, “Yes, that’s it…good boy, John, _good_ boy; now, come for Daddy…”

There was an audible gasp, bringing John back out of his own thoughts and into the present. He felt flushed and overly- warm now, not to mention that his trousers felt a little more… _snug_.

He looked over at Sherlock, assuming the gasp had come from him, but the man still hadn’t moved, not one inch, regarding John with that cool, smooth expression-the only discernible change was a hint of color creeping across those marble cheekbones.

He hadn’t been the one to gasp…it was John.

The former soldier swallowed, his mouth suddenly going dry. He tried to match the detectives’ guarded expression with one of his own and failed; he licked his lips, not quite believing the next words to come out of his mouth, even though he willed it…

“Ok, I’ll do it.”

He watched as those lips curled into a victorious, slightly smug grin and the man stood, crossing over to his chair; before John could utter another syllable, there was a knee nudging its way in between his legs and pressing against his hardening cock in the loveliest of ways. His breath hitched and he tightened his grip on his chair as the towering figure leaned down close to his ear. “You won’t regret it,” the voice poured forth like silk, a hand coming up to cup his cheek while warm lips pressed a light kiss on that wonderful little place where his jaw curved into his neck.

John melted, his head swimming with all sorts of delightful sensations and imagery as he tilted his head to allow the detective better access, letting his current ‘state’ get the better of him. Sherlock couldn’t help but oblige such a welcoming invitation and trailed more light kisses all the way down the man's neckline, stopping at one of his favourite places on the doctors’ body-the crook where neck and collarbone meet. The reactions he garnered there were what made it one of his favourites; the slightest bit of attention to it drove John _wild_ , and Sherlock loved any opportunity to make the man come undone.

Sherlock's lips had no trouble finding just the right spot, urged on by the pattern of Johns’ quickening heart rate and increasingly shallow pants, and he wasted no time making himself at home, closing his mouth over it and laving the tip of his tongue all over before sucking lightly and worrying the small patch of flesh with his teeth.

John moaned and arched into Sherlock's touch, reaching up to gather a handful of soft curls and tug, encouraging the man along. He gasped with every flick of tongue and nip of teeth, hips bucking and grinding against the knee in his lap, which was agonizingly still. “Sher-Sherlock,” he breathed, his mouth falling open as he writhed in his chair like a cheap whore.

“Hmmm?” the man hummed, making John jerk and whimper… ' _Wait, WAIT…get it together, man!_ ’

It took quite a bit of willpower, but he tugged on the fistful of now-damp locks until their owner unattached himself from Johns’ neck with an obscene _pop!_ and a grunt. “What is it?” he asked, confused and impatient, his eyes wild and pupils blown.

John kept his hand twisted in the detectives’ hair. “I have… _stipulations_ ,” he said, breathing heavily, the spot on his neck tingling.

Sherlock smiled wolfishly. “Stipulations? That’s a big word, John, very good…tell me about these ‘ _stipulations_ ’,” he said, making a go back at the good doctors’ throat.

John kept a firm hold of the man, stilling him and meeting his unwavering gaze. “I’m _serious_ ,” he said, pointedly, though his voice was thick with arousal. “And you _will_ pay attention, or the deal’s over with before it even begins.”

Sherlock growled low in his throat and rolled his eyes, “Fine, _fine_ …but I have some of my own, then. Tell me yours.”

He opened his mouth to speak and then threw his head back, moaning loudly. The knee that had previously been motionless was now rubbing right against his erection, and the detective had a cheeky, triumphant leer on his face.

John yanked on his handful of hair, wrenching the man's head to the side roughly and causing him to cry out. “You’re already forgetting your place, _boy_ …maybe this was a bad idea,” he let the threat hang between them.

Sherlocks’ eyes widened, all traces of bravado disappearing from his features, “Oh, _no_ sir! I’m not forgetting; I _won’t_ forget, I swear!”

John looked at him for a beat longer, then nodded, satisfied. “As I was _saying_ ,” he began, his voice more measured now that he had the upper hand back. “This is going to be a _temporary_ arrangement…and it’s very likely going to be your only chance; don’t blow it.” Sherlock nodded as much as Johns’ grip allowed, listening intently.

“Next…you are not to ask me to submit to anything you yourself wouldn’t submit to,” he continued, realizing that he was still giving him a very broad range. “And last…this doesn’t happen until _I_ choose, and I’m warning you right now, I _will_ need help and patience while getting into the right headspace.”

Sherlock was silent as he took all of this in, then licked his lips and nodded again, “Yes, sir…understood.”

“Good; now, what are _your_ ‘stipulations’?” John asked, reaching out on the word ‘your’ and taking a solid hold on the man's cock, making him squeak.

Swallowing hard, the detective began, the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice. “I kn-know it’s to be temporary-y,” he stuttered as Johns’ hand began kneading. “But I w-want it to last for a f-full twenty-four hours, from s-start to f- finish.”

John pursed his lips, considering it. “Fair enough, continue.”

The quick agreement must have given him some of his nerve back; he sounded steadier this time. “Since I won’t ask you to submit to anything I wouldn’t, then I have to ask you to submit to anything I _do_ ask, or suffer the same consequences.”

John cocked an eyebrow at that; the man was being extremely thorough, and it made him wonder how long he’d been planning this. He nodded in assent, anyway.

“And lastly,” Sherlock said, sounding breathless again as Johns’ hand moved to cup his balls. “This is an _isolated_ event…you can’t use anything I do or say while I’m ‘Daddy’ against me when I’m little again.”

Oh, now that was a _really_ good one, and an incredibly smart move.

John took a deep breath and, even though it was probably going to come back and bite him in the arse, nodded again. “Very well, I think we’re both on the same page.” He pushed Sherlock's knee out of his way and stood, letting go of the man's crotch and listening to the relieved exhalation of breath. He took that long, porcelain face in hand, pressing both cheeks inward and making his lips pout out. “Now, go into MY room and strip completely…I want that arse in the air and that posh face buried in the mattress by the time I get in there; Daddy’s going to bugger the _shit_ out of you.” He let go and sent him on his way with a sharp smack to his bum.

John watched as Sherlock scurried away to do as he was told, waiting until the man was out of sight before falling back into his chair with a thump. His cock was being scraped to death by his zipper, so he undid his trousers, giving it a little breathing room. He covered the bulge with his hand and gasped, replaying that little scene he’d imagined between him and Sherlock, as well as the first few minutes of their heavy grinding, when the other man had clearly been in charge. He inhaled sharply as the thought sent another strong pulse straight to cock, and a small wet spot appeared on his exposed pants as he began leaking pre-cum…

What the _hell_ had he gotten himself into?


	2. Chapter Two- A Plan of Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes he may have bitten off more than he can chew. 
> 
> *There may be a *slight* hiatus during this story; real life always seems to find a way to kick me in the metaphorical nads when I get a good pace going. It won't be anything year-long this time, however...promise!*

The better part of a week passed without further mention of the subject, though it was obvious it was in the back of both men's minds.

Several times, John found himself _wanting_ to ask, _wanting_ to initiate it, get it going…he even went so far as to stand behind Sherlock whilst the detective was bent over several case files spread out across the kitchen table, completely focused, for several minutes as the doctor shifted his feet and opened and closed his mouth, _wanting_ to reach out and tap him on the shoulder or call him ‘Daddy’, but unable to find the nerve.

Sherlock had finally turned around and pinned him to the floor with _that_ gaze; _that_ gaze he used on people he was observing, the one that took in all information and weeded out everything he needed to know in moments, studying John until the doctor stammered out a weak “…Want some tea?”

The man regarded him coolly for some time before shaking his head and going back to his work.

That had been two days prior; Damn it, _why_ was this making him so jittery?!?

A week of this niggling at the back of his thoughts constantly, as well as being overwhelmed and confused at his own reactions to the mere images his mind was conjuring up, put John in an irritable mood…and poor Sherlock had the misfortune of being in close vicinity for the brunt of it.

But, much to Johns’ surprise (and annoyance), he never took the bait and retaliated; he would let John rant and bark and foam at the mouth, all while he stood back and watched with an insufferably Mycroft-esque smile.

This did nothing to elevate Johns’ mood, needless to say.

That Saturday was the worst…while John usually had them off, Sarah called and apologetically asked if he could come in and work a double shift, as she was shorthanded that day. Well, of course he said ‘yes’—after all the times she’d cut him some slack over showing up late (or not at all), he couldn’t very well say ‘no’, could he?

He stomped about the flat getting ready, slamming doors and cabinets and just overall being pissy, not even bothering to look at Sherlock or even tell him ‘bye’ before he left.

It was no better at the clinic; it was clear after being there for a couple of hours that they would have been fine without him…actually, he saw a grand total of two (count’em, TWO) patients in the entire twelve hours he was there, and both were low-priority cases that were in and out within a half hour of the time they arrived.

He left from there much in the same way he’d arrived; in a series of quick, huffy steps and a curt nod to anyone he passed on his way out.

Although, he did manage to catch a cab rather quickly...that was a small bonus. Not even bothering with his usual polite small talk, John told the man where to go and sat back, staring daggers out the window and inevitably thinking back on the same _fucking_ thing he’d been stewing over all week.

Usually, when Sherlock wanted something bad enough (or even slightly somewhat _might_ want it in the future), he kept after it and kept after it and _kept after it_ , and as much as the man had begged him to switch that first (and last) day it had been discussed…nothing. Not another word about it. Just that constant _staring_ , as if he knew something that John didn’t...and it was even more infuriating than usual.

And what pissed him off the most…the man wouldn’t argue back when he snapped at him! Just more of that same damned smile!

Sherlock _had_ to be plotting something; it had to be some sort of game to him…

A game...

The realization hit John hard enough that he thought the cabbie’d rear-ended someone; It _was_ a mind-game; Sherlock was taking a page from Johns’ book and was purposefully making him wait, making him act out, then ignoring him until he was begging for attention and willing to do _anything_ to get it.

Sherlock _wanted_ him to ask for it.

‘ _That smug motherfucker…_ ’

By the time they pulled up to the front of 221B, John was fuming…he tossed a wad of bills through the cab’s window and barreled his way upstairs, ready to fling the door open and shout things at the gangly bastard until the air itself turned blue…and then he paused, hand already on the knob.

Something...smelled absolutely delicious.

Surely it was coming from Mrs. Hudson’s place, must be…but no, the smell was thicker up here; it was definitely coming from behind their door.

Sherlock must have become impatient and ordered out-he’d been known to do that once or twice, when he was hungry enough.

Well, at least the doctor didn’t have to worry about dinner now.

John pushed the door open and was struck with a whole array of delicious smells, his mouth starting to water; all he’d had for lunch was a cheap sandwich and a pack of crisps. “What smells so goo—” he called out, anger temporarily forgotten…the sight that greeted him while he was getting his coat off stopped him in his tracks.

Sherlock was standing at the stove, the cuffs of his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, a small white chef’s apron tied at his waist, tossing what looked to be an assortment of vegetables in a sauté pan. John watched, dumbstruck, as he reached in and plucked a small cherry tomato, popping it in his mouth for a taste test and smiling at his own culinary prowess. He looked up at the sound of Johns’ voice and his smile broadened, growing warmer and brighter. After turning off the stove and moving the pan off the heat, he came towards John with a bit of bounce in his step and helped him out of his coat, which the doctor hadn’t even gotten past his shoulders. “Perfect timing, John!" he greeted him, placing a soft kiss on the man’s temple and hanging his coat up. “I was just about to take the chicken out of the oven!”

...He hadn’t even known they _had_ a sauté pan.

With John still speechless, Sherlock ushered him into the kitchen and sat him at the table, which had been cleaned off and set for dinner.

John could only gape as he watched the detective put on a pair of mitts and open the oven door, a heavy scent of rosemary and citrus wafting over him as another pan was taken out and sat on a dishtowel on the counter.

“I…I didn’t know you could cook?” John said, well aware that it sounded like more of a question than a statement.

Sherlock only grinned as he took a large bowl of chopped salad out of the fridge next, as well as a bottle of vinaigrette, placing both in the middle of the table. “Of _course_ I can cook; it’s simply a series of set actions…it takes precision and timing and measurements, as well as a certain amount of skill with a knife…I just don’t _like_ to cook all that often,” he explained, snagging a black olive from the edge of the bowl and popping it into Johns’ mouth as he opened it to ask another question. “Because it’s tedious,” Sherlock answered it anyway, giving John a wink.

John rolled his eyes and smiled as he chewed; the man was unbelievable. Mere minutes ago, he was on the verge of throttling him, and now…now he might as well buy sunglasses so the glow from Sherlock's bloody halo wouldn’t blind him. He swallowed and looked around for a glass; there weren’t any on the table. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, standing up to get one himself. As heavenly as all of this was, he felt there had to be a catch-the man had either destroyed something or pissed somebody important off.

Sherlock immediately spun him back around and deposited him back in his chair, standing behind him with his hands on the confused doctors’ shoulders. “You, good sir, have had one hell of a day, and you deserve to relax,” he replied, his voice taking on that low, rumbling pitch; John could feel it reverberate at his back and spread through his chest, making him feel warm and cozy. “Sherlock, _thank_ you, really, but I was just going to get a…”

“A drink, I know; I’ll take care of it. You stay here and get started…I could hear your stomach growling from downstairs.” John felt an affectionate squeeze and a kiss on the top of his head before the man was gone, rifling through the cabinets.

The biggest, goofiest grin split his face as he took Sherlock's suggestion and tucked into the salad; everything was crisp, fresh, and perfectly seasoned, John noted…leave it to the man to not only be able to cook, but able do it damn well, at that.

He felt Sherlock at his back again, returning with his drink, and as John turned to thank him, he sat the cup down next to Johns’ plate, causing the doctor to stop and stare.

One of Sherlock's sippy-cups (the one with the green lid and a little yellow elephant holding a bunch of brightly coloured balloons with his trunk on the side of it) sat there, filled with what looked like grape juice.

‘ _Oh…_ ’ he thought, looking up at the detective, who was in turn looking back down at him with that same knowing smile he’d had all week, and the second revelation of the day struck John then…this time, it was the correct one-

Sherlock hadn’t been playing a game, or teasing him…he’d been doing exactly what he’d been told.

‘ _…help and patience getting into the right headspace…_ ’

John gave a small, depreciatory laugh and shook his head; he was such an _arsehole_. “Sherlock, I’m sor-"

The detective-who’d been watching Johns’ features change and shift with every thought and reading each one as clearly as a word on a page-cocked an eyebrow and put a finger to the doctors’ lips, shushing him. “It’s alright; I would have assumed I was being a jerk, as well…and you’re _not_ an ‘arsehole’.”

John blinked at him. “You _can_ read minds; I knew it.”

Sherlock chuckled at that one and took both of their plates, carrying them over to the stove to serve them. “Not quite…you always get a curl to your upper lip when you’re thinking in expletives; it was a 50/50 shot between ‘arsehole’ and ‘bastard’.”

“I almost went for ‘bastard’, actually,” John said, turning back to his salad and ignoring the sippy-cup for now.

“You’re neither…” a pause, “...most of the time, you’re neither,” Sherlock shot back over his shoulder before joining him at the table, setting their plates down.

John picked up his fork (he was _famished_ , and this all smelled so wonderful), and noticed that his chicken was already cut into small, bite-sized pieces. He looked again; he didn’t even _have_ a knife at his plate.

He glanced at Sherlock, who was cutting off a bite of his own food as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. “Always two steps ahead, eh?”

Without missing a beat...“Ten steps, and yes.”

Dinner went by smoothly…Sherlock listened to John while he ranted about his day and how boring it had been (“I believe the phrase is, ‘welcome to my world’,”) and other mindless chatter.

But between the conversation and the spices in the food, John inevitably became quite thirsty. He looked from the cup to Sherlock, who watched him calmly as he picked up his own glass of water and took a drink.

‘ _Dick_.’

Sherlock only smiled. “Now, now…that’s not very nice. You have your own cup right there.”

John sighed…well, this _is_ what he’d agreed to. He looked up at the clock, “Time starts now?”

Sherlock shook his head, swallowing another bite. “No…time starts when you get up in the morning; tonight is just about getting you comfortable enough for it.”

Jesus…the man really had thought of everything. ‘ _Well, he has had all week to plan, and who knows how long before he’d actually asked._ ’

John reached over and begrudgingly grabbed it by one of the handles, lifting it to his lips and feeling extremely awkward while doing so.

“Both hands, please…we don’t want a spill.”

John shot him a hard look; the detective was outwardly watching him now, his plate pushed aside. “Trust me, it makes a difference.”

The doctor looked at him incredulously, but followed the suggestion (he was NOT considering it an order; nope) and took the other handle and placed the cup to his lips, sucking on it.

Oh, this was _definitely_ different…and odd…and weird…but Sherlock had been right; using both hands certainly made it less wonky. He looked over at the detective, whose face was split into a wide, affectionate grin and he blushed, feeling very self-conscious about how he looked and sat the cup down, embarrassed.

“Not so easy on the opposite end of the spectrum, is it?” Sherlock teased lightly, picking up his own napkin and reaching over to blot Johns’ lips; he noticed the deepening colour on the man's cheeks and the shifting in his seat. “John,” he said, in all seriousness. “Remember, it’s just _me_ -try to relax.” The man scooted his chair closer and, while John watched skeptically, traded the napkin for his fork. Gathering a bite of vegetables, he held them up to Johns’ mouth, “Who knows…you might even enjoy it.”

‘… _Damn that voice,_ ’ John thought, even as he opened his mouth to accept the offered bite.

Sherlock’s face became one of exaggerated excitement, his eyebrows popping up and gasping loudly. “There we go; there’s a good lad!”

John was fairly certain he blushed from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, but he let his lover continue to feed him. An odd, confusing sort of feeling came over him; he was embarrassed, of course…undeniably so, but aside from that, it wasn’t _all_ bad. He enjoyed being the center of Sherlock's undivided attention without having to demand it, and it was a luxury to watch the man go to such lengths for him…

Was this how he made Sherlock feel?

The snap of fingers brought him back to attention, “John…?”

He focused back on Sherlock's face, which looked bemused. “And you accuse _me_ of spacing out,” he laughed, holding up another forkful. “Come on; finish your dinner so we can get you ready for bed.”

Now, _that_ certainly got Johns’ attention. “Wha’ does tha’ mean?” he asked as another bite was placed into his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full; it’s rude,” the man replied matter-of-factly, handing him the sippy-cup. John took it reluctantly, feeling a bit silly for getting scolded, and shrank down in his seat a little.

There was that smile again; the one Sherlock often got during a particularly intriguing case or successful experiment, and he reached out to ruffle Johns’ hair playfully. “It means what it always means; first a bath, then a bit of a cuddle, and then bedtime.”

Johns’ eyes widened, “You’re gonna _bathe_ me???”

“Only if you want me to,” was the answer, Sherlock sticking the last bite of food on the doctors’ plate. “Tonight isn’t about _forcing_ you, remember…we just want you to be nice and relaxed-” he stopped, tilting his head and softening his voice. “Would tha’ be too much, too soon, yeah? You want to shower by yourself tonight?”

‘ _My GOD!...He is WAY too good at this_!’

John could feel himself blushing again, and he was sure he’d wake up with ruptured capillaries tomorrow. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t manage a verbal response…so he gave up and nodded, shyly.

Sherlock held the last bite up to his lips, “That’s alright, you can do that…but I’m drying you off and getting you dressed; deal?”

John nodded again (finding it easier than talking at the moment) and took the bite, his mind whirling… _Man_ , this was just, just…just _weird_!

The detective leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, then stood and took both of their plates over to the sink. “Finish your juice and go get in the shower like a good boy.”

John put the cup down and looked around at all the dishes and leftover food. “Can’t I help...?”

“You can help by doing as I asked,” the man said, his back still to him.

John actually bristled, the ‘Daddy’ in him not dormant just yet. “I was just trying to be nice!” he said, snippishly.

Sherlock turned back slowly, placing a hand on one lean hip and affixing John with the no-nonsense stare that he often used with Lestrades’ men; something low in Johns’ belly twisted and churned now that that gaze was squarely on him, and he reverted back into silence.

“I know you were being ‘nice’,” the taller man stated, his voice carrying a clipped edge to it. “And while it was very ‘nice’ of you to offer; I asked you ‘nicely’ to go do something else, didn’t I?”

John nodded and looked down at the floor, fully understanding the need Sherlock had to pull his legs up into the chair with him when the roles were in opposites.

“John _Watson_ , look at me!...”

His head snapped back up, shocked to hear his last name used, and used in _that_ tone, no less.

At least his middle name hadn’t been invoked, as well.

Sherlock had both hands on his hips now, still staring him down. “Go get in the shower, _now_ , before I pick you up and carry you in there myself!”

Johns’ jaw dropped; he’d just been _threatened_! “But I…you can’t just…!”

He didn’t think Sherlock would actually do anything, not after he’d just assured him that he wouldn’t be _forced_ to do anything…but then again, he did just technically give him a choice, and John knew enough about the way the mans’ mind worked to realize that, at least to Sherlock, it was completely fair and within the terms of the agreement.

Sherlock cleared his throat impatiently.

For whatever reason (maybe because he was actually intimidated, or because he wanted to test the detective; he didn’t really know himself), John balked again…until Sherlock tossed the dishtowel in his hand down and took two long steps towards him.

John jumped up and began to scramble out of the room; a call of “That’s what I thought!” following behind him as he dashed upstairs and into the loo, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it while his heart pounded in his ears.

That had been nerve-wracking, intense, and…strangely exciting.

A quick glance down at the front of his trousers, which were tenting out slightly, confirmed it.

‘ _John-goddamned-motherfucking-Watson, you are a **confused** individual_.’

After hopping in the shower and getting in a quick wank (incredibly quick, while he thought of that look that Sherlock had given him), John was rinsing the shampoo out of his hair; eyes closed under the warm spray of water, steam billowing around him, when he heard the door open and shut. He pulled the edge of the curtain back for a peek and saw Sherlock setting a small pile of clothes down and getting a clean towel out of the small cabinet on the opposite wall.

John shouldn’t have been surprised, really, that the man was actually following through with what he’d said, but a tiny part of him was.

“Almost done? Or would you like some help?” That soft, child-friendly tone was back, and even though he hadn’t turned around yet, John _knew_ that smile was there.

“No, _thank you_ , that’s quite all- _ahh_!” He drew in a sharp breath as a line of soapy water dribbled right into his eye and began burning like the dickens; he scrubbed at it with the heel of his hand.

Sherlock whirled around, “What’s the matter?”

John was back under the stream of water, trying to hold his eye open and flush it out. “Bloody-bastard soap in my eye!” he spat.

The detective clucked his tongue, “Watch your mouth; that was highly unnecessary!” Without further warning, the man reached into the shower and took hold of the back of Johns’ head, pushing it forward and making quick work of rinsing the rest of his hair out.

“Sh-sherlock, stop…wh-what, what are you doing?!” John sputtered and spit as water ran down the sides of his face.

“Rinsing your hair out, obviously,” the man said flatly, shutting the water off next. “He-ey! My eye still burns!” John whined.

“And I’m sure that blasting it with hot water was doing _wonders_ ,” he replied, pulling John out of the shower and wrapping him in a towel. While he stood there, still rubbing at the irritated eye and swiping water out of the other, John heard the sink running…the next thing he knew, he was being pulled into Sherlock's lap while the detective sat on the closed toilet lid.

John landed in an undignified heap, making an equally undignified noise. “Stop scrubbing; you’re only going to make it worse,” the detective said, taking the soaked mans’ wrist and easing it away. John scrunched up his eye and was mere seconds away from telling Sherlock exactly where he could put that hand when it was replaced by a soft, cool flannel.

Sherlock wiped gently, and damn it if it wasn’t infinitely more soothing than the hot water and his fist had been.

“Better?”

How the man could ask a question and sound like he already knew the answer…John wasn’t crossing off the mind-reader theory just yet.

“Still burns,” he said sullenly, even as he leaned back against the taller mans’ chest. Well, it _did_ …but only when he blinked.

He just didn’t want Sherlock to stop.

Sherlock held the cloth in place, kissing the side of Johns’ still-dripping hair. “I think someone’s just a bit fussy because they’ve had a bad day, and now they’re tired…is tha’ right, hm?”

John hadn’t noticed when it started, but he was now being slowly rocked from side to side...and he realized at once that yes, indeed, he was bone-tired and worn ragged. “Mm-hmm,” he mumbled, not giving a rip how childish this part was…it felt _nice_.

Sherlock slowly removed the cloth and used his thumb to carefully open Johns’ eye. “Hm, you’ve made it bloodshot,” he said, examining it. “We’ll wait and see how it looks in the morning; Daddy may have to put eye-drops in.” He let John close his eye after receiving an irritated whine and then kissed the eyelid.

As tired as he was, and on top of being distracted by all the poking and prodding, it took John a full forty-five seconds before what Sherlock said registered…

‘ _Daddy…_ ’

His whole body grew warm...and it wasn’t completely from the shower.

If Sherlock realized it (oh, who was he kidding? Of _course_ the man realized), he made no mention of it; he only patted John on the thigh, ushering him off his lap. “Come, let’s get you dried off and ready for bed.”

The doctor listened and stood, though he was disinclined…he’d been _so_ comfortable. “But…” he began, then bit his lip-there was something Sherlock had neglected to mention… something _important_ , but that sense of embarrassment was back, making it quite difficult to voice his concerns.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he moved John to stand between his legs, taking the towel and drying him off thoroughly with a gentle, yet platonic, touch…especially around his bits.

John chewed at his lip…‘ _Oh, for fuck’sake…_ ’ “I just, um…what about the…the cuddle?” he asked, putting his hands on the man's shoulders as each leg and foot in turn was lifted and dried.

The detective smiled, his head still down. “ _Oh_ , I see…thought I forgot about that part, did you?” He finished drying Johns’ foot and looked back up, a teasing little gleam in his eye.

John closed his hand into a loose fist and pressed it to his cheek (a move that he admittedly hadn’t done since he was five) and nodded.

Sherlock tossed the towel and wet cloth into the clothes bin. “No,” he answered, picking up the pile of clothes he’d brought in. “I didn’t forget, we’re just not stopping up in front of the telly tonight…it’s straight to bed with you, Mr. Curmudgeon.”

John couldn’t stop from wilting a little at the news…but he was _awfully_ tired.

“Arms up,” the man instructed, holding one of Johns’ grey shirts. He did was told, almost thankful for the directions so he didn’t have to think nearly as much, and the soft cotton fabric was tugged down over his head.

Next were the pants…a pair of white briefs that he hadn’t worn in ages (not after switching to the more stylish boxers), but hadn’t tossed out yet. Sherlock held them out while John stepped into them, the blush creeping back across his cheeks as they were pulled up nice and snug…again, the detective avoiding any overtly sexual contact with his 'downstairs'.

“All done!” the man announced, standing and ushering John out of the room with a firm hand at his lower back. “Wait, wait!...Where’s the rest?” the shorter of the two objected, trying to pull his shirt down over his pants.

Of course, the reaction didn’t particularly make sense; Sherlock had seen him in all varied states of undress, and neither men were strangers to sleeping in the buff…they’d had _sex_ , for crying out loud! Sleeping in nothing but a shirt and pants should be of no issue…but if anything, being dressed as such only made him feel _more_ exposed and vulnerable.

John wasn’t going to try and rationalize it, not now…that’s just how he _felt_.

“There is no ‘rest’,” the other man responded in kind, directing him into his bedroom…Sherlock's bedroom, actually...not Johns'. Another brilliant tactic; taking John out of his usual element...the jerk. The detective left him standing in the doorway as he went over and pulled down the corner of the duvet, then looked back and patted the mattress invitingly. “Come along…bedtime.”

John hesitated, shifting from foot to foot while Sherlock waited patiently, letting him get used to the idea. After a short internal struggle, he inched over and climbed in, allowing the man to tuck the blankets around him. Turning his face into the pillow, he breathed deeply…it smelled of Sherlock's shampoo and cologne, with a faint hint of tobacco smoke-he must sneak a cigarette in here, occasionally. While that would have bothered the doctor at any other time, John found it strangely comforting now; it was a very ‘dad’-like smell, and it brought back a flood of memories…

John suddenly felt Sherlock walk away from the bed and sat straight back up. “Where are you going?” he asked, inwardly cringing as he heard how much clingier that sounded out loud than it had in his head.

‘ _Now, **where** had he heard that before…_?’

Sherlock was back in an instant with a hand on Johns’ chest, easing him back down. “I’m only getting myself ready for bed, silly…” he said lightly, hoping to soothe. “Lay back down, Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

That did, in fact, help put John at ease, and he let the man push him back, gathering the blankets underneath his chin.

The detective kissed his forehead quickly and walked back over to his closet, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. John watched, fascinated; the man never failed to make a spectacle out of the most mundane tasks…or maybe it was just John being smitten.

Sherlock took his sweet-arse-bloody-fuckin’-time undressing, being unusually meticulous in putting his clothes away while John kept his eyes glued to the movement of every muscle that flexed underneath that pale, unmarked flesh as the man twisted and turned and bent, stripping completely before tugging on a pair of thin, plaid pajama bottoms and crawling into bed with John... _finally_.

John turned onto his side, facing away from the detective and feeling the mattress dip behind him before that lean, warm body slid in and curled around, spooning him. An arm reached over and clicked the bedside lamp off, casting the room into darkness; the bed creaked as Sherlock shifted closer, and John felt a warm gust of breath at his ear. “Get some sleep, darling…tomorrow’s an _exciting_ day!” a voice in the shadows whispered.

Johns’ stomach twisted in that weird, excited-yet-scared-shitless flippy way; the detective must have felt the change in his body language. “What’s the matter, love?” he asked, giving up on whispering and sounding a touch concerned.

He swallowed, trying to still the feelings’ that were at war in his guts, “Sherlock, this is…this is _weird_.”

Feeling the detective stiffen behind him, John rolled over to face him, just barely able to make out his blurred features in the dark. “I didn’t…I mean…look, it’s not _you_ ,” he explained, quickly. “You were _perfect_ tonight, really! It was a brilliant, amazing idea, and it worked; it really did…”

“…But?” the other man finished for him.

“But, it’s just…” John grew quieter, reaching out to play with one of Sherlock's loose curls. “Giving up control is scary,” he whispered, finally admitting it to both the detective and himself.

He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock's relief. There was a slow exhale of breath, and he felt an arm reach over him again and press at his back. “Come here.”

John all-too-gladly obeyed this time, not wasting a moment as he burrowed into the man's chest and tucked his head under his chin. The hand stayed at his back, rubbing in slow, lazy circles.

“I was afraid too, you know…when I first told you,” the man said, John feeling his chest rumble and echo against his cheek.

John closed his eyes. “Bullshit…you had that all planned, you jerk.”

The chest he was conversing with rose and fell with a deep breath. “But the fear of rejection and you leaving was still very real.”

Oh. John hadn’t remembered that part…at least he always tried not to.

“Sherlock, I nev-…”

“But you didn’t. You stayed…you stayed, and you accepted _everything_ , without so much as a hitch…well, there was an _insignificant_ hitch…but I knew I had been right to trust you.”

John felt him pull away, and he opened his eyes to find Sherlock's bright ones shining at him through the dark…they were so _clear_ , those eyes.

“Do you trust me, John?” His gaze was steady and unblinking.

“Yes,” John answered, without a shred of uncertainty or moment of pause to be heard.

He watched the shadow of the man's lips curl into a smile. “Yes, _what_?”

John smiled back. “Yes…Daddy.”

Sherlock tucked him back at his side. “Good boy…now, go to sleep.”

There was another little flutter in the doctors’ stomach at the phrase; a pleasant one this time. He nuzzled the detectives’ shoulder and (after a few lovely minutes of having his back patted and rubbed with the most caring sort of gentleness that he _never_ would have previously expected from the man) relaxed enough to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sleep, however, never came easily for Sherlock…at least, not ‘adult’ Sherlock. He felt Johns’ body slacken as the man became lost to the conscious world, but kept up the rubbing and patting, taking pleasure out of such a simple, yet intimate act.

The ever-consulting detective closed his eyes anyway, his mind still buzzing and humming with activity, much like an outwardly dormant beehive-

After all, he had _so_ much to plan for tomorrow.


	3. Chapter Three- Highs and Lows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a fresh perspective.

Even without the aid of an alarm, John still awoke fairly early that morning; his internal clock unaware of the phrase ‘sleeping in’.

He was lying on his belly, legs splayed and arms tucked underneath his torso…and was absolutely _the_ most comfortable he’d ever been in his life. How Sherlock could remain indifferent to sleep with a bed like this was beyond reasoning.

Cracking an eye open, he glanced up at the clock sitting next to the lamp…8:02.

There was a clatter and a muffled curse from downstairs and he smiled to himself; apparently, there _were_ some things out of the detectives’ control. 

John closed his eyes again, turning his face completely into the pillow and taking advantage of that cozy, not-quite-awake sensation. He must have dozed back off; the next thing he knew, his side of the bed was sinking and a hand rested on his hip, shaking him gently.

“John? Time to get up, lad.”

He groaned, not wanting to be roused just yet because one, he was damned comfortable, and two, because he still had some trepidations about all this business, even after their talk last night.

Sherlock heaved a theatrical sigh worthy of any daytime TV opera. “I suppose I’ll just have to eat brekkie all by myself, boo-hoo…” he lamented, even topping it off with a sniffle.

John grinned to himself; it was a top-notch effort.

Well, Sherlock had been borrowing more than a few of Johns’ techniques; now it was time for the doctor to borrow one of _his_.

Curling up into a tight ball, he pulled the covers over his head and cocooned himself in, letting out a petulant “ _Nooooooo_ …tired!”

There was a pause; he must have taken the man by surprise… _ha_!

“John, you’ve had a full ten hours of sleep…that’s _more_ than adequate. Get up and let Daddy get you ready.”

“Nuh-uh!” Okay, so this part _was_ kind of fun…he could see why Sherlock did it. John tried to keep himself from giggling and giving away the game so soon.

“One…”

Oh, so he was resorting to _that_ quickly enough, was he?

“Two…”

John lifted a corner of the blanket, peeking out and seeing the edge of Sherlock’s flannel-covered knee before a mop of dark, wild hair and one bright blue eye obstructed his vision and he squealed, jerking the covers back down and giggling like a man gone ‘round the bend.

“Fine, lay there in bed _all_ day, while I eat _all_ the peppermint ice cream that I bought for someone special,” the man said, John feeling him get up and listening as footsteps left the room.

_‘…Peppermint ice cream? Son of a bitch!...’_ He made a mental note to never enlighten the detective to his favourite ‘anything’, ever again.

John lay there, wrapped up and waiting for Sherlock to come back and try to rouse him again; the air underneath the blankets growing increasingly hot and stale until he could no longer stand it…

Slowly lifting the duvet off his head, the doctor craned his neck to peer back out into the room, towards the door—

Wrong. Fucking. Direction.

With one fluid motion, the bedclothes were ripped off of him and Sherlock pounced from his hiding spot at the end of the bed, pinning John down and tickling him unmercifully.

John shrieked, unable to block any of the multiple limbs the detective had seemingly sprouted and was immediately attacked from every conceivable angle at once; when he covered his neck, he left his ribs exposed…when he protected his ribs, his belly was left wide open…not to mention his armpits, his feet, and even the _extremely_ ticklish crease between his torso and thigh. He tried everything: flailing, pushing, curling up into a ball… he even tried _punching_ , he was so desperate…but it was all in vain; Sherlock was a man with a mission.

“Sh-Sher…Sherlock! _STOP_ ,” he wheezed, going breathless. Tears rolled down his cheeks, which were starting to ache from laughing so damned hard. “I-I-I can’t, I can’t _breathe_!”

“Obviously you can, if you’re still screamin’!” Sherlock replied, hardly sounding like he was exerting any effort at all. “And that’s NOT my name; say my name, and I’ll stop!”

John was pitching himself back and forth, still screeching with side-splitting laughter and trying to buck the skinny motherfucker off him...the only thing he succeeded in was getting pinned onto his belly while Sherlock sat on his back and attacked the bends of his knees. “OKAY!” he squealed; he couldn’t take it anymore—and he was starting to feel an uncomfortable little twinge in his bladder. “ _Okay, okay, okay, okayokayokayokay! **Daddy** , please stop!”_

His request was complied with instantaneously as Sherlock crawled off the top of him; John sent up a silent prayer of thanks as the pressure on his midsection was relieved and he rolled onto his back, breathing heavily and giggling at leftover phantom tickles.

Sherlock was laughing as well, in that deep, throaty way of his. “Awake now, are you? Silly boy…” He leaned over and John hugged himself tightly, “N-no more,” he begged, still trying to catch his breath. “No more, or I’ll wee everywhere, really!"

An indiscernible look crossed the man’s face for a fraction of a second, and was gone before John could pin it down. “No more tickles, promise!” he said, taking the doctor by the hips and scooting him sideways, leaving his legs to dangle over the edge of the bed. “Daddy’s just going to get you dressed, that’s all!” With that, he gave Johns’ leg a pat and walked over to the dresser, opening drawers and pulling out several items.

John was too preoccupied with wiping his eyes and giggling to notice…and that had actually been _fun_ ; it even made him feel like a kid again, to boot. He had to hand it to the detective…he wasn’t doing a bad job. Not bad at all.

And then Sherlock was back, setting the pile of things he’d gathered further up on the bed, out of Johns’ sight. “Arms up; let’s get this shirt off,” he said, already tugging the bottom of it over his belly. John clamped his arms down, “No more tickling?” he asked; he had to be _completely_ sure.

The detective smiled and shook his head. “I promised, didn’t I?”

John nodded and lifted his arms slowly, ready to snap them back down at a moments’ notice, just in case; this IS Sherlock they were talking about, after all.

But true to his word, there were no more tickles…though Sherlock did brush his armpit by mistake, making John twitch violently (“Sorry, Daddy’s sorry, accident!”), but managed to get it up without further incident.

Sherlock moved John into a sitting position and removed the old shirt, then grabbed the new one and quickly pulled it down over the doctors’ head before he could get a good look at it.

John let out a muffled “Hey!” and closed his eyes as the cloth was yanked over his face and his arms were manhandled into the sleeves. “What’s the hurry?!”

Sherlock didn’t answer; he only adjusted the clothing and stepped back, smiling deviously.

John was thoroughly confused…until he happened to look down at himself. He jerked his head back up and glared at the man. “You...are just the _worst_ kind of person.”

The new shirt was one of Sherlock’s ‘little’ shirts; pale blue with light green stripes, it was made of soft, stretchy fabric that fit him tighter than it did the detective (obviously), but not uncomfortably so. It was shorter, as well...stopping just above his belly button and clinging to whatever it did cover, accentuating the bit of pudge around his middle.

Sherlock mimicked his glare, but for a little hint of a smile at his lips…“Aw, why so grumpy?” Without waiting for a response, he stepped between the angry little hobbit of a man’s legs and kissed his forehead. “It suits you…makes you look _very_ sweet,” he said, at least sounding sincere. He began petting Johns’ hair, “Is it too tight?”

John considered saying ‘yes’ just so he’d take it off…but Sherlock would know right off the bat that he was lying.

Plus…it was soft, and very comfortable. And the petting didn’t hurt matters. “No,” he pouted (yes, he knew he was pouting; what of it?), then looked up and met Sherlock’s gaze. “What else are you stuffing me in?” As it was, the shirt was hanging on with a thread and a prayer; he knew none of the bottoms had a hope of fitting him. And he wouldn’t be made to stay in just his pants all day…

…Would he?

Sherlock answered his question by looking off to the side at the rest of the pile, leading John to turn and see for himself.

The only items left on the bed were a nappy, and a bottle of baby powder.

“ _ **NO**_ ,” he said, moving to stand even as he felt Sherlock’s hands closing around his shoulders. “John, it’s not that bad…”

John shook his head, trying to stand again. “No, no, absolutely _not_ ; I’m not doing this anymore; that is…” he stuttered, pointing at the offending items, “…that is the fucking _line_ , Sherlock!”

The detective frowned; his tone losing the soft, coaxing quality. “ _John_ ,” he said again, already sounding as if his patience was running thin. “We had a deal…”

“But _that_ was not part of it!” the stroppy little doctor spat back.

“Actually,” Sherlock replied, his grip tightening as he tried to make the other man lay back again, “It most certainly was.”

“We never uttered a _word_ about nappies!” John used his height and position to his advantage and disengaged from the (now startled) detectives’ grasp, sliding between his legs and making a break for the door.

“ **John _Hamish_ Watson!** ” thundered behind him; he’d seen Sherlock act big and blustery before, but damn…that was the true definition of ‘bellowing’. It was almost enough to make him stop in his tracks…

…Almost.

He barreled down the stairs, hearing Sherlock thumping after him only a handful of steps behind. He cut a sharp left through the kitchen and, feeling outstretched fingertips brush the collar of his shirt, he panicked…he jerked a chair out from underneath the table and pushed it to the floor, hearing Sherlock’s pained cry and a loud _BANG!_ as he stumbled over it and hit the floor.

John had just enough time to zip into the sitting room and leap onto and then over the couch, getting it between him and the positively volcanic-looking man that came around the corner with a slight limp.

John felt a pang of guilt; he hadn’t meant to _hurt_ him, just slow him down. He shook his head slightly to bring all of his focus back to the current situation.

The two men stared each other down for several tense moments, both breathing heavily, before John spoke up. “You,” he choked out, his lungs burning, “are _not_ putting a nappy on me.” He tried to say it with a sense of finality, but was just too breathless.

Sherlock only glared at him, head lowered as if about to charge; for a split second, John felt that churning in his stomach again…the same way it had when Sherlock threatened him last night.

He clenched his jaw painfully, _‘Do NOT get a fucking hard-on right now, you daft bastard!’_

Sherlock pointed at him, his own chest heaving. “You…promised.”

John shook his head, “I said no such thing.”

Sherlock grinned, in a _very_ unpleasant way (more of an ‘I’ve-got-you-and-now-I’m-going-to-destroy-you’ sort of way), and wagged his finger. “You put me in them.”

“Yeah, and?” John countered, not comfortable with where this line of conversation was going; he kept his eyes trained on the detective, readying himself to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Sherlock chuckled darkly…whatever he had up his sleeve, it wasn’t going to bode well for a certain ex-soldier.

“I agreed,” he stated slowly, as if he was talking to one of the feeble-minded, “that I wouldn’t make you submit to anything that I, _myself_ , wouldn’t…as long as you agreed to what I _did_ request. _I_ wear nappies; _you_ wear nappies.”

Johns’ head swam and his stomach sank; he _had_ said that...

Damn this man and his mental ‘terms and services’ disclaimers.

_‘Shitfuckinggoddamnbuggerbitch…’_

“So,” the other man began again, breaking Johns’ line of the best swearing he’s ever done. “Either be a ‘good boy’ and let me powder your bum, or you can get a spanking and _then_ I’ll powder it; your choice…”

John blanched…that hadn’t crossed his mind _at all_ , amazingly enough. Sherlock… _spanking_ him? Absurd!

He stared at the man, trying to gauge how high the risk factor of calling his bluff would be, when a loud banging noise came from the floor at his feet, accompanied by an unhappy-sounding Mrs. Hudson. “Boys, it is half-past eight on a _Sunday_ ; quit that racket!”

It was quite unexpected, and Johns’ attention shot to the floor for just a split-second, ready to shout an apology…

A split-second was all Sherlock needed.

Three quick strides and he was across the room, limp forgotten; one more had him over the couch and tackling John to the ground with a heavy thud and a cry of half surprise, half fear.

For John, it was a blur…one moment he was looking at the floor; there was a streak of pale white chest and blue dressing gown in his peripheral, and then the floor was rushing up to greet him as long arms and legs netted him and pinned him down for the second time that day.

There were more sharp bangs; she must have been hitting the ceiling with her broom. “ _BOYS_!!!”

“SORRY!” Sherlock shouted back as he fought with the struggling form underneath him, while John wondered loudly at how a walking stick figure was managing to hold him down.

The taller man managed to get both of the shorter’s arms pulled back, taking both wrists in one large, spansive hand and pinning them to the small of his back while he held him down with an elbow.

“Get the _fuck_ off me, man!...”John grunted, trying to jerk out of Sherlock’s grasp and get his legs back under him; Sherlock had always been wirey and could certainly hold his own in a scrap…but John had been a soldier, goddamnit!

“That is _enough_!” he heard the detective hiss right in his ear, followed by something swishing through the air and ending with a loud clap…just as a red-hot cloud of pain bloomed across his right buttock.

John gasped and immediately went still; he was instantly reverted back to the same nine year old boy who’d (after having a row with his sister over some game or other) become so fed-up that he’d snapped and called her a ‘bitch’…not realizing until it was far, _far_ too late that their dad had been standing right behind him.

At least, he hadn’t realized it until he was whirled around and bent under an arm, his backside getting firmly walloped while he howled his little head off.

Sherlock took full advantage of Johns’ reminiscent state and hauled him to his feet quickly enough to throw him off-balance; the detective stooped and gathered him onto his shoulder. John gave a strangled little cry as he was lifted abruptly and carried back up the stairs, getting a thorough scolding the entire way.

“I honestly expected more of you, John Watson! You have _always_ prided yourself on being a man of your word, and here I thought I could _trust_ you to follow through on this deal, this _promise_ , that _you_ made!...”

John sucked in a breath…that actually stung more than the swat had.

“But I…” he began, and was cut off by another sharp smack, making his left cheek match his right.

“I’m not _finished_!” was the scathing reply, and John fell silent—with his bottom smarting and Sherlock’s bony shoulder digging uncomfortably into his gut, he decided it would be in his best interest to let the man have his say.

“The very idea…all of _that_ over a nappy! Nappies that _I_ wear, that _you_ put me in, need I remind you!” The verbal blistering continued, punctuated with another crisp smack.

“Ah- _ow_! Sherlock, really, I’m…!”

“That is _not! my! name!_ ” the man spat back, accompanied by three very well-placed slaps to the backs of Johns’ thighs.

And that is when the little doctor became truly undone.

“ _Ow, ow, ow!_ I’m sorry, _Daddy_ , sorry!” he choked out, tears pricking his eyes as he clutched the back of Sherlock’s dressing gown; that long-forgotten feeling of childhood shame and embarrassment wrapped around him and reached deep into his chest to grip his heart and squeeze.

Once they were back in his bedroom, Sherlock set the doctor back on his feet and Johns’ hands instantly flew back to cover his backside—partly because of the pain, and partly because of the look he was getting.

Sherlock glowered down at him, hands on his hips, jaw set firmly. After several tense moments, while John fidgeted and shuffled from foot to foot, he finally spoke…he wasn’t seething anymore, but was still quite angry.

“I wanted this to be a _pleasant_ experience, John…I wanted you to relax and possibly even have fun, while I took the responsibility of taking care of _you_ for a change. You made a deal, agreed on it, and admittedly kept up your end of the bargain…until now, when it really counted.”

Johns’ head hung lower and lower with every word, until his chin rested against his chest; he couldn’t even look at the other man right now…

“You’ve disappointed me.”

Oh…oh, _ouch_.

Johns’ heart sank and, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, his eyes continued to well up…Sherlock was right, of course; he had agreed, and the whole thing about wanting to take care of him struck a nerve—John was so used to being everyone’s “go-to” option…

And for him to have _disappointed_ the man…his friend, his lover, his sometimes ‘little boy’…

Johns’ bottom lip shook as he fought to keep in check, “S-sorry…Daddy.”

Sherlock’s stance softened ever-so-slightly, and his gaze lost some of its intensity. “Are you going to be a good boy and do as you’re told, or do I need to take you over my knee proper, first?” he asked; his tone still serious, but no longer angry.

John shook his head…the cluster of swats had been bad enough; he wasn’t in any hurry to find out what a full-blown spanking would be like. “N-no, I’ll listen, I promise!”

One perfectly arched eyebrow cocked up. “‘No’, _what?”_

“No _sir_!” he added quickly, blinking back unshed tears and recalling how often he’d said the exact same thing to the detective.

The other man nodded, satisfied, and then snapped his fingers and pointed to the spot on the bed where John had lain previously.

The doctor swallowed hard and began slowly making his way in that direction; as he passed by, Sherlock added “And don’t think you’ve gotten away with anything, little boy…we’re continuing this discussion downstairs!” and with that took Johns’ arm, moving his hand out of the way so he could land one last heavy swat to the seat of his pants.

John yelped and danced out of the way, then turned to face the detective and backed up until his legs bumped the edge of the mattress. He sat and looked between the nappy and Sherlock, chewing on his thumbnail anxiously.

Sherlock followed close behind, then picked up the dreaded item and opened it. “Lie down,” he said; his tone not leaving any room for argument.

John made an unhappy face and a little noise to go with it, but did as he was told and laid back, letting his legs dangle over the side the way they did earlier; he covered his face with both hands and felt the heat radiating from his cheeks.

He was allowed that tiny reprieve as Sherlock sat the nappy aside and tapped Johns’ hip. “Up,” he instructed.

The doctor raised his hips and his pants were whisked down and over his feet, leaving him nude from the waist down. He shivered, feeling goosebumps pop up all over…in part because of the breeze on his bits; the other part being sheer humiliation.

He kept his hips up because he knew what was coming next: there was a crinkling noise, and then he felt the nappy being placed underneath his bottom. “Good boy…down,” the other man murmured softly, and John heard the cap on the powder being twisted open, followed by a light dusting sensation on his crotch and a thick, sweet smell in the air.

John lowered his hips again, and Sherlock brought up the front of the awful-bloody-fucking-thing and taped it into place. “There we go! That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” the man enquired with that theatrical cheeriness.

The doctor sat up miserably, the slight bulk between his legs feeling thicker than it actually was; it was one of Sherlock’s nappies, of course, so it sat low on his hips and was certainly…form-fitting…but at least he could breathe and move without it tearing to shreds.

Well, really…that might be a preferable alternative to wearing the damned thing.

He frowned up at Sherlock and the man began chuckling. “You and your grumpy little expressions!” he teased, then crouched to put himself at eye-level. “A grumpy little hobbit, yes you are!”

John silently wondered just how far the man would like this hobbits’ foot right up his hobbit-hole.

Sherlock must have sensed the impending danger, for he stood up again…and well out of harm’s reach, too. “I’ll bet my hobbit’s fussy because he’s hungry,” he said gently, holding out his hand and wiggling his fingers to entice John into taking it.

John reached out and took it slowly; it seemed that Sherlock wasn’t angry anymore, now that he’d been compliant, but that meant nothing…the man was a _performer_ , and could easily outshine any BAFTA winner. He thought back to what he’d been told; that this ‘discussion’ wasn’t over.

He soon had his answer; Sherlock held onto his hand firmly while they descended the stairs with John waddling close behind, still trying to get used to the feel of his new wardrobe. While the doctor was too busy pouting down at the bulk of white padding that now enclosed his groin, he didn’t notice the detective coming to a stop in front of him, until he chanced to look up and bump nose-first into Sherlock’s back.

John ‘oof’ed and peered up at him curiously while he rubbed the tip of his nose…the detective peered down at him and then turned to look back into the kitchen; John followed his gaze…

...And came to rest upon the upturned chair, still lying in the middle of the floor.

John blushed and put a finger to his mouth; so _that's_ what the man had meant…

_‘Oh...’_


	4. Chapter Four- Fun and Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's this chapter and the next, and then there will be a slight hiatus, as I was afraid of. Don't worry, there will be nothing year-long, and I DO plan to finish!

When Sherlock finally spoke again, it was back to that not-quite-angry-but-definitely-not-happy tone. “Running from Daddy was one thing, but that,” he said, pointing to the chair as if there were any possible way John could have missed it. “That was just mean-spirited…mean-spirited, and quite dangerous,” he admonished.

John outwardly cringed…he hadn’t _meant_ it that way; he’d only panicked! He looked up at Sherlock, embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to ask earlier, “…Are you okay?”

Keeping his expression neutral, Sherlock bent down and lifted the leg of his pajama bottoms, exposing a sizable lump on his shin where the chair had connected; it was already beginning to turn several shades of purple and blue. “You tell me,” he said, surprisingly calm.

John drew an audible gasp before he could cover his mouth; Oh, he felt _awful_. “I’m SO sorry, Sher…Daddy; I didn’t mean to!” he said, sounding just as miserable as he felt.

Sherlock let his pajama’s fall back into place and stood back up straight, reaching down to cup John’s chin in his hand and make the man look him in the eye while he scolded him sharply. “Now, I want you to stop right there and think about that…you _did_ mean to; you knew exactly what you were doing when you jerked that chair out!”

John actually began to tremble, he was so upset…he opened and closed his mouth several times to try and protest, but nothing came; he was again struck silent because, well…he really didn’t have a protest. Not a good one, anyway…he had known what he was doing, yes, but he hadn’t meant…dammit, he just hadn’t _thought_. He hadn’t been thinking of anyone or anything but himself and just look!…someone had been hurt. Someone he _loved_ …and all over a stupid nappy that, in all honesty, wasn’t so bad.

The small doctor began tearing up all over again, his vision blurring as he choked out another “S-sorry…”

“I know you are,” Sherlock said, letting go of his chin in favour of cupping his cheek. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be repercussions.”

John’s stomach sank straight to his toes, but he nodded anyway; he deserved it, no matter what ‘it’ was, and would accept whatever Sherlock had in store for him…he might be getting that spanking, after all.

“Go pick up that chair…”

 _‘Here it comes…’_ John closed his eyes, trying to keep the tears that were threatening to fall at bay.

“…And put it facing the corner. You’re going to sit there and think about what you did until Daddy says you can get up.”

_‘…Wait, what?’_

John opened his eyes and glanced up at the detective, surprised. “No…?” he began, his tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously; he was finding the next word near impossible to say, being on the other side of the equation. “No…spanking?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. “Why? Do you want one?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

The smaller man shook his head vigorously, his hands already going back to his still tingling bottom.

The detective’s eyes scanned over him quickly, gauging how truthful John was being…and then nodded, satisfied. “Then consider this a warning; your _only_ warning,” he said, not taking his eyes away from the shorter man. John cringed and bowed his head again; God, it was so _easy_ to feel ‘little’ with Sherlock and the whole of his presence looming over you!

“…But the very next time I get _any_ cheek from you, the next vantage point of your world is going to be an upended one!”

John nodded, the corners of his mouth drooping into a pout. “Yes, sir,” he said, without being prompted this time.

Sherlock now seemed more than satisfied with that answer. “There’s my good lad…corner, now, and not another word from you until I say otherwise,” he said, pointing again.

John went and gathered the chair, setting it upright and then dragging it to the corner of the kitchen that Sherlock had indicated and looking for all the world like a scolded puppy. He sat, propping his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, staring at the intersection of the wall while Sherlock puttered around behind him. The urge to turn and look was almost unbearable, but the thought of what might (well, _would_ ) happen if he were caught was enough of a deterrent.

It wasn’t long (only a minute or so, really) before John realized how completely _boring_ time-out could be, and made a mental note to at least acknowledge, if not outright apologize, to Sherlock for it. After all, if HE was this bored, he could only imagine what it did to the detective…that was just plain sadistic.

While his mind was on Sherlock and trying to imagine how the man would be reacting if the roles were reverted back, John tried to pull another one of the detective’s ‘trancing out’ spells…but every time his mind began to wander, he would move or twitch, causing the nappy between his legs to crinkle loudly and snap him back to his current predicament.

…It wouldn’t be surprising at all if the man had planned for that little detail, as well.

As a matter of fact, _all_ of Sherlock’s plans were falling into place, even if John had managed to throw a wrench into the gears. The man was actually doing a stellar job as ‘Daddy’, especially when John’s expectations had consisted mostly of yelling, sarcastic quips, and a big heaping dose of payback…surprisingly, Sherlock’s ‘parenting’ style wasn’t too far from his own; John would have handled this situation in much the same way.

Well, okay…if he were to be truthful with himself…he would have _vigorously_ set the little detective’s bottom on fire for running from him.

A few minutes later, John was still marveling at how this whole experience was already far exceeding his expectations (and it wasn’t even _noon_ yet!), when he heard Sherlock call his name.

The doctor turned in his chair, keeping his bottom firmly planted on the seat because he hadn’t been given _express_ permission to get up and peered over the back of it, looking appropriately chastened.

Sherlock was seated at the table, stirring a bowl of John-couldn’t-see-what while his bruised leg was propped in another chair with a small, plastic bag of ice sitting on it. He crooked his finger at John; “Come here.”

John stood and shuffled over, his head hanging and hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock set the bowl aside (oatmeal, John noticed; that’s what it was) and pulled the smaller man into his lap sideways, then held him to his chest. “It’s alright; Daddy’s not mad,” he said, pressing his lips to John’s cheek. “…Can you tell me what you thought about while you were in time-out?”

John leaned into him, infinitely glad for the physical contact again. He opened his mouth, fully intending to answer, but happened to glance down at the other man’s leg…and his throat began to clench.

Now, John knew that, in the grand scale of what they’d both been through since they met, a bump was nothing…infinitesimal, insignificant, and quite literally, _nothing_. But, dammit, he couldn’t help it. Sherlock was being so nice to him, and he’d been such a, such a prick, and he’d _hurt_ him; the man that trusted him, loved him….and over something so stupid, so…!

The tears that John had been so steadfast in fighting against finally won the battle, and began sliding down his cheeks as he covered his face with his hands, overwhelmed with guilt.

Sherlock maneuvered him until John was straddling his lap, legs hanging on either side, and made the doctor lay his head on his shoulder. “Now, now…what’s this?” he asked lightly, rubbing John’s back. There was a note of genuine surprise in his inquiry; after all, the man rarely, if ever, cried…

…And over being sat in the ‘naughty chair’?

“…I…I…”John stammered, but his voice cracked and he gave up trying to explain anything; however upset he was, he did _not_ want to start wailing, not in front of Sherlock. The smaller man wrapped both arms around the detective’s thin neck and buried his face in them.

“Was I too harsh, hm? Was Daddy too mean and scary?” The concern in the man’s tone was evident, and mounting with each passing moment…this wasn’t normal ‘John’ behavior; not at all.

John shook his head; no, no!—that was all wrong, it was _his_ fault, not Sherlocks’! He tried to voice this again…but a strangled sob bubbled its way out of his throat instead.

_‘Oh, damn it to hell...’_

That particular sound had the detective on his feet with his little hobbit clutched around the waist, the half-melted bag of ice hitting the floor and, along with the twinge in his shin, going largely unnoticed…those were unimportant; right now, only _John_ was important. Sherlock bounced him up a little higher and now had both hands underneath him, supporting his bum…the detective began to pace the length of the kitchen, trying to match what he thought John would do if the situation was reversed. “Daddy’s not a mindreader, love…remember? I’ll fix it, I promise, but it’ll be faster if you tell me,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

John was hardly aware that they were moving, let alone that he was being carried; he was more concerned with the fact that he was openly bawling like a child, and now that the tears were flowing freely, how he was unable to staunch them. His chest was beginning to jump and ache from the force of his sobbing, but he forced himself to try one more time… “Di-didn’t m-mean…hurt y-you… _sorry_!” he said, ending in a pained whisper.

Sherlock stopped mid-turn, relieved that he now knew what the problem was, and then cursing himself for being so damned _slow_ —

…John still felt guilty.

“Oh, my brave little soldier…still worrying about everyone else but himself,” he cooed…yes, _cooed_ ; him, Sherlock Holmes, cooed, because that’s just how much he was invested in the normally-tough-as-nails bundle in his arms.

Sherlock returned to his chair and sat again, then pushed John back just enough to cup his tear-stained face in his hands. He smiled sadly, “…Even when you’re supposed to let me be in charge, here you go punishing yourself instead.”

Poor John…the doctor was completely shattered; slow, fat tears continued to spill down his cheeks, and all he wanted to do was curl into a ball and hide, but the other man wasn’t having that. “Sh-Sherlock, _please_ …” he begged, putting his hands over the detective’s in the hopes that the man would take the hint and just let _go_ of him already…

And let go he did…only so one hand could gently cover John’s mouth. Sherlock shook his head; “Daddy,” he said plaintively.

John shook _his_ head in reply; this was all just too much to process, he couldn’t handle it anymore…this whole ‘experiment’ had been meant to be a jaunt, a way to keep Sherlock content and off his back, and maybe get a couple of sexy-fun memories to toss one off to down the line…but these, these _feelings_ …they were never supposed to be part of the deal.

Sherlock sighed…not as one would out of exasperation, but as someone whom had a secret they wished to reveal. “John, I’m going to move my hand, and when I do, I want you to take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly…can you do that?”

The doctor blinked to clear his vision, sending several more tears rolling, but nodded anyway.

The detective moved his hand, just as he said he would, and John took a deep, hitching breath, holding it while Sherlock quietly encouraged him. “Yes, yes…there you go, that’s a good job, just like Daddy asked,” he said, smiling at him. “Now, let it out…slow, slow…good boy; can you do it again, hm? Just for me?”

After the third repetition of that process, John was finally able to calm down and get his breathing regulated again. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he pulled himself together, but for once, he didn’t feel ‘studied’…he felt cared for. “I…I-‘m s-sorry,” he stammered, using his hands to wipe his eyes and cheeks and nose, his voice still raspy and thick with tears. “Don’t know why I, I c-couldn’t stop…”

There was a slight tilt to Sherlock’s head as he listened, and then he lifted his hands to slowly rub John’s upper arms. “…You didn’t feel as if you’d been properly punished,” he said at last.

John blinked and sniffled, “But you…you put me in time-out!...” he protested.

Sherlock nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yes, I did…and you sat there and thought about everything _but_ what you were being punished for; didn’t you?”

John had to stop and think about that for a moment…“Y-yeah, I guess I d-did,” he admitted.

The detective nodded again; it was very much like leading a small child to their own conclusions. “And because you didn’t think about that, you didn’t feel punished…you still felt guilty, and couldn’t come to terms with it.”

Again, the little doctor was rendered speechless…of course, now that it had been spelled out for him, it made perfect sense. But that was the real root of Sherlock’s genius—he thought in ways that most people don’t have the sense to even consider.

He was brought back out of his own thoughts when he felt the detective’s hands cradling his face, while his thumbs gently wiped away the tear tracks criss-crossing his cheeks. “Feel better after that big cry?” the man asked, back to using his softer ‘Daddy’ voice and smiling at him warmly.

John nodded and leaned into the touch, nuzzling Sherlock’s palm and giving him a small smile in return. He _did_ feel better; lighter, in a way…he also understood why ‘little’ Sherlock could be so weepy and clingy.

“Aw, that’s a dear,” Sherlock chuckled. “An’ I bet my little hobbit’s hungry after all tha’ noise, isn’t he?”

John blushed, reverting back to the quiet, shy little boy that his ‘small’ side was turning out to be and nodded again; he _was_ pretty hungry now, but…

“…Your leg?” he asked, shrinking back a bit and putting a shy finger to his lips. Both the ‘Daddy’ and the ‘Doctor’ in him were still fretting over it.

“Mm-mm, no,” Sherlock tutted, shifting John into the chair across from him and reaching for the bib he’d left lying on the table that morning. “You let Da’ worry about that; it’s only a bump, anyway,” he added, tearing the velcro ends apart and refastening them around John’s neck. After retrieving the partially-forgotten bowl of oatmeal, the detective tested it with the tip of a finger and was pleased to find that it had cooled off _just_ enough in the interim, and was no longer the same temperature and consistency as molten lava. John watched quietly as the man held the bowl in one hand and scooped a big spoonful with the other, then held it out to his lips.

The little doctor opened his mouth eagerly (having already been through this routine the night before, he found that it wasn’t nearly as taxing on his dignity this time) and realized as soon as it hit his tongue that the oatmeal was _just_ oatmeal…bland, plain oatmeal.

He _loathed_ plain oatmeal.

John dutifully chewed and swallowed, anyway; after the turbulence of this morning, he wanted to be on his best behavior…he wasn’t about to kick up another fuss.

Sherlock glanced back up, another spoonful ready, and paused…his smile turned into a look of puzzlement. “What’s the matter, lad?”

Apparently, John’s ‘pokerface’ wasn’t as spot-on as he thought…or at least, not in such close proximity. He really, _really_ should have known better than to try and keep anything from Sherlock, but he shook his head anyway. “Nothin’, Da’!” he said, opening his mouth for the next bite.

His Daddy frowned… “No, that’s not it at all; don’t try and fib, young man,” he admonished. He held the bowl under his nose and sniffed; “Has it gone bad?” he asked, trying a small bite of his own.

John felt his face heat up; he really didn’t want to complain, not when Sherlock was doing his best, but…well, isn’t that what small children did?

He tried to slip back into his current ‘role’ a bit more and ignored the adult part of his brain telling him to ‘hush and get over it’. “It’s _plain_ ,” he said quietly, meeting Sherlock’s gaze and giving him an honest-to-God pout…complete with hunched shoulders and a slightly-stuck-out bottom lip.

The expression on Sherlock’s face practically glowed…or maybe it was from the lightbulb going off in his head. “ _Ohhh,_ ” he said slowly, getting up from the table and heading towards the fridge. “I completely forgot; hobbits have a sweet tooth!”

John turned to watch, hoping that Sherlock was doing what he thought he was…yes, _yes_ he was!

The detective reached into the refrigerator and, with a knowing smile, came out with the jar of John’s favourite strawberry jam and proceeded to spoon two generous portions of it into the waiting bowl and stir. After putting the jar away and making sure everything was thoroughly mixed, Sherlock sat back down in front of his hungry little boy and held the spoon out again. “Here we go; the _good_ stuff!”

John took it eagerly, with a little hum of appreciation behind closed lips. “Mmmm!”

A short, deep laugh erupted from the detective…aside from the row over the nappy, John was taking to the change better than expected (well, he _had_ been expecting some resistance over that particular item, just not to such physical extremes). He imitated the noise, “‘Mmmm’, is tha’ better? Did Daddy fix it?” he asked, grinning (in what could only be described as) stupidly.

John felt himself blushing again at such undivided attention, nodding back and smiling shyly; who’ve thought …John Watson, Army Doctor with a killer (pun fully intended) shot…could be such a timid little thing???

“Use your words, please,” Sherlock said, playfully tapping him on the nose with his pinky. “And _don’t_ be afraid to tell Daddy when you need something; goodness! I’m not going to tell you off for anything like that, love!”

John started to nod again, then realized that was the complete opposite of what Sherlock had _just_ asked him to do. Even so, all he managed was a quiet “ ‘kay.” Sherlock seemed pleased enough, though, and smiled while he fed the little doctor the rest of his breakfast; he even went so far as playing ‘aeroplane’ with the spoon. John watched this game with no small amount of skepticism, his eyebrow cocked up in an _‘are you SERIOUS?’_ expression…but after awhile, he couldn’t resist the force of Sherlock’s playful nature and took to giggling at his ‘plane’ sound effects.

Once the last mouthful was chewed and swallowed, Sherlock wiped John’s face (more for show than anything, really...Sherlock was too careful, and John wasn’t _that_ regressed yet) with his bib before unfastening it and giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Hmm,” the detective pondered, sounding pleasantly surprised while licking his own lips and carrying the dishes to the sink. “That _is_ good; no wonder that’s your favourite!”

Now, there was one thing that John couldn’t complain about with having a picky-eater as a flatmate…you never had to worry about sharing your food. “ _NO_ , mine!” he fussed, the very idea that his jam would start being pilfered putting him dangerously close to ‘tantrum’ territory.

Sherlock came back and took John’s hands, making him stand up. “Of course it’s yours’,” he said, combing his fingers through his hobbit’s wild hair. “And I wouldn’t dream of taking it from you!”

John nodded sullenly, “Good, ‘cause it’s _mine_.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up into what might have been a smile…but he didn’t want to send the wrong message and encourage such behavior. He turned John in the direction of the sitting room; “Be a good boy and go play nicely,” he said, sending him on his way with a playful (but firm) swat to his padded backside.

John scurried into the room, covering his bottom from any more ‘encouragement’ until he was well out of Sherlock’s immediate reach, and then looked about. Now, what was that man talking about? _‘Play?’_ He didn’t actually intend for John to get down in the floor and _play_ , did he?

The doctor pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and sighed…of _course_ that’s what he intended.

Sherlock passed behind him, making towards the stairs…but seeing John stand there, unmoving, made him pause; “…Something wrong?”

John shook his head, but there must have been something…perhaps the way he was awkwardly glancing about the room, looking lost and unsure of himself… that clued the detective in otherwise. “Don’t you remember where the toys are?...do you need Daddy to get them?” he asked, frowning slightly…and without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the opposite wall where several boxes were stacked, full of assorted papers and books. Reaching behind them, Sherlock retrieved the non-descript cardboard box that contained all of his toys: blocks, colouring books, crayons, puzzles (adult ones; the toddler versions didn’t even come _close_ to keeping ‘little’ Sherlock occupied), and other miscellaneous ‘fun’ things.

Dragging it to the center of the room, the detective pulled out a few items to get him started; a pop-up book of the human anatomy, a soft, squishy bee with fiber-optic wings (“Mr. Bumble”)…and a pullstring bag full of army men.

John mimicked Sherlock and arched his eyebrow; _‘Har-har…’_

Sherlock smirked and, while the little doctor was distracted, slipped an arm around his waist…with one, fluid motion, he used his other to sweep his feet out from under him. John plopped down onto the floor with an indignant _‘umph!’_ and glared up at the man, who only smiled in return and reached down to ruffle his hair. “Stay _right_ here; Daddy’ll be right back,” he said and, before John could respond, went bounding up the stairs like an overexcited dog chasing after a ball.

John couldn’t keep from rolling his eyes, and then immediately scolded himself…Sherlock was being a _wonderful_ ‘Daddy’; the least he could do was stop being such a little shit. He turned to look back at the array of playthings spread out in front of him, wondering what to do next…wondering…

It was then that the doctor made a very surprising, very _sad_ realization about himself…

He couldn’t really remember how to ‘play’.


	5. Chapter Five- Childsplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Lord, people....you know that weird, cheese-in-a-can stuff you can buy; the squeezy kind?...
> 
> Well, that's what this story is...fluffy cheese. 
> 
> So cheesy...so, SO cheesy...

John sat in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by toys…and had absolutely no idea how to go about playing with any of them; not without feeling incredibly awkward, at least. Sherlock still hadn’t returned, either...so, after a few more moments of contemplation, John sighed and picked up the bag of army men and dumped them onto the floor.

_‘Go with what you know, I suppose.’_

He sifted through them and began setting them all up by rank…well, as best as he could guess, as generic as the moulds for them were. Soon, a few of Sherlock’s toy cars joined the fray, substituting for the Humvees’ that John was familiar with; as he dug for more, a pleasantly brilliant little idea hit him…

John began pulling out all of the blocks he could find, which were plentiful…Sherlock had four or five different sets: wooden ones, plastic ones, even some of the big, squishy fabric ones for the days Sherlock felt not just ‘little’, but downright ‘tiny’. John skipped those, however, and started to construct his battalion—the barracks, mess hall, the artillery, all of it. Then, he forged roadways in-between and started running tanks along them, while soldiers went to-and-fro along the way…most stopping by the medical tent for a chat.

The little doctor became so engrossed in his internal conversations (and recalling the memories that they were based on), that he never heard the detective slip back into the room, now dressed in his ‘around-the-flat’ clothes; slim-fitting jeans (John often wondered how Sherlock managed to still sound as baritone as he did when wearing them) and an old plaid button-up that he usually saved for the messier experiments. He knelt and crouched quietly behind John, watching his silent game and taking small satisfaction in his little hobbit having gone for the ‘bait’.

After a few short minutes of observing and getting a clear memory to store away in his mind-palace, Sherlock inched up next to his little soldier; “Keeping everything in order, Captain?” he asked quietly, so as not to startle him.

John jumped anyway, his knee bumping into the wall of one of his buildings and sending blocks clattering to the floor. Sherlock started his theatrics again, gasping and leaning over to right the fallen structure. “Oh _no_ …it’s an ‘earthshake’!” he said, watching the smaller man out of the corner of his eye.

The doctor automatically reached for the blocks to set them right again…after all, they were only blocks; they were meant to take a tumble and either be stacked again, or made into something else, right? Of course they were. So...why wasn't his hand cooperating anymore? Why was he starting to feel that painful tug at the back of his throat; the same one he'd felt back there in the kitchen?...

...And why was he starting to think about the _nightmares?_

Good God, what was _wrong_ with him today?!?

Sherlock saw this, this myriad of different emotions and thought processes flash across John's face...he saw _all_ of them, and more. “That’s the thing about blocks…” he said gently, taking John’s hand in his own and manipulating it to pick up a block. “Even when they fall, they can be put back together.”

John kept his head down, watching quietly as his own hand was used to rebuild his small structure, even when his vision started to grow watery and obscure. “But what…” he began, his voice cracking painfully, “…but what if the blocks themselves…break?”

The detective shook his head; “Blocks are stronger than you think,” he replied, “…especially when they have other blocks for support,” he said and, despite his well-known disdain for anything cliché or overly-sentimental, took one of the taller, thinner blocks and stood it next to a shorter, square one.

The doctor finally turned to look up at him, his eyes still shimmering with tears…but there was a faint smile on his lips now. He would have told the detective ‘thank you’, but really…he knew he didn’t have to. And, just as he thought it, Sherlock leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss at the very top of his nose, right between his eyes; a gentle confirmation. John blinked, his unshed tears already receding; “An ‘earthshake’?” he repeated, the humour returning to his voice as he recalled what the other man said.

“Heard it in an animated movie,” the detective responded in kind. “We can watch it before naptime later, if you can be a good boy for Da’.”

John nodded and replied with a quiet “ ‘kay,” and helped Sherlock rebuild, going on to explain what each building was and what the soldiers did there. Sherlock jumped right in, taking over for certain figures and giving each of them their own distinct voices and personalities.

The little doctor ate up every bit of it; he loved watching the man when he took on different ‘disguises’ while on a case…it never ceased to amaze him how Sherlock could completely cloak himself with a persona with only the aid of a simple costume, and now was no different.

As a matter of fact, John became so enchanted under all the attention that was usually reserved for crime scenes that, once again, he lost focus on his immediate surroundings. It started with a slight twinge in his bladder, just as it had when Sherlock had tickled him unmercifully, which was easy enough to ignore…at first. The slight twinge soon turned into a pressured ache, and John moved from his knees, to sitting flat on his bottom as the ache only increased…so did the squirming, until he could no longer ignore it.

He glanced over at Sherlock, hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t noticed…and while the man wasn’t looking directly _at_ him, it was very clear that yes, he HAD noticed. But he made no mention of it; he just sat there, all bloody-peaceful-like while he held a plastic soldier who was currently barking orders to a line of other moulded men.

John felt a little ball of dread starting in the pit of his stomach…he felt he knew _exactly_ what the detective was waiting for.

“…Daddy?” he asked shyly, tugging on Sherlock’s sleeve.

“Hm?” the detective hummed, still looking away.

“I have to…go,” John answered, his tone hushed, face blushing furiously again. He had a good indication of what the answer was going to be, though, and just _thinking_ about it was already painfully embarrassing.

“Go where?” Sherlock asked absently...well, he knew precisely what John meant, _obviously_ , but he needed to nudge him in the proper direction.

“To the…toilet,” the little doctor replied, barely above a whisper, and begrudging the other man for making him voice it.

Sherlock looked up then, his expression casual. “No wonder; you haven’t ‘gone’ all morning. Do you just have to wee?” he asked, as if this were everyday conversation.

John shifted uncomfortably, pressing his thighs together. An unfortunate move, however…it only served to accentuate the nappy between his legs. “Uh-huh…” he said, unable to make eye contact any longer.

Sherlock made another noise in his throat. “I’m surprised it took _this_ long…go ahead and go, fussy hobbit.”

John heaved a thick sigh of relief and made to stand up…that had been relatively easier and less humiliating than he’d thought!

A strong hand lay on top of his thigh, halting him. “And just where do you think you’re going, little one?”

The smaller man stopped, then sank back down slowly. “The…toilet?” he said, thoroughly confused.

Sherlock shook his head, “No-no…the toilet’s only for big boys and grown-ups; you’re only little…a little boy in a nappy,” he finished, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees…a skinny, severe Buddha-figure with way-too pronounced cheekbones.

 _‘Oh, God…’_ This is _exactly_ what he’d been afraid of. The walls of his bladder clenched again, making it known that it was NOT happy with the hold-up and that it was going to be releasing soon, toilet or no. “Please, just this once?” he begged, pressing a hand to the front of his nappy in hopes of stalling.

“No,” Sherlock replied, though to his credit, it was not unkindly. “You’re in a nappy, and you’re going to use it.” The man tilted his head so he could look John in the eye, “…Does Daddy need to help?”

John blushed furiously and kept his eyes downcast; he thought back to the first time he’d gotten the detective into a nappy, as well as the consequent usage…but that had been a _slightly_ different situation, and ultimately the detective’s curiosity had won over any embarrassment felt—he’d easily wet his nappy, just so he could know what it felt like…

John wasn’t quite as eager.

Sherlock realized John had dropped into his own musings again, and pinched the bridge of his nose; it wasn’t nearly as conducive when someone _else_ went into silent periods of contemplation…not when he needed that particular person’s attention.

The detective sighed and, taking his distracted little hobbit under the arms, dragged him over and plopped him into the empty space of his crossed legs, with John facing outwards. Once the shorter man was settled, Sherlock placed a hand over his groin, directly on top of the ‘problem’, and began to apply firm pressure while kneading with his fingers.

John gasped when he found himself being moved, the whole motion happening too fast to give him a chance to wriggle free. When that determined hand began pressing into him, however, he quickly caught on; “Wait, no!...stop, please, don’t _make_ me!” he began to plead, his legs squeezing together and toes curling against the increasingly desperate ache…he groaned as his cock twitched against the infernal padding that was enclosing it; it was _very_ near to bursting.

“Shhhh,” the detective hushed him, once again using his deep, resonating voice to his advantage to soothe the wriggling form in his lap. His hand kept working, though, despite the protests. “You’re alright, John…you knew this would be part of it. Putting it on wasn’t so bad, remember? Not after you laid back to accept it…” he murmured lowly, his nose nudging John’s ear.

“Just let go; it _will_ be okay.”

John tried, he really did…he focused on the voice in his ear and took a deep, shaky breath before slowly spreading his legs, trying to do as his Daddy asked, trying to let go…but it was much, _much_ harder than he thought it would be.

It is NOT easy for an adult to willingly piss their pants, apparently.

The doctor tried to push a bit, just to get things started, and winced at the sharp burning sensation that it caused. “Hurts, Daddy,” he whimpered, while tiny beads of sweat started to dot his upper lip.

“No, no…don’t try to force it,” Sherlock said evenly, continuing to apply even pressure on top of John’s bladder. “Think of ‘wet’ things; think of endless cups of tea, think of warm water sliding down your body in the shower…” The detective felt the first hint of John’s muscles loosening and kept going, putting him at ease. “Think of all the times we’ve been caught out in the rain, running through puddles and sending them splashing up around our ankles…think of the case last year, when that mean, _bad_ man threw me straight over the side of the bridge and into the Thames, and you jumped right in after me…”

John _did_ think; thought of all of those things, but it was the memory…the memory of Sherlock’s feet disappearing over the stone barrier of that bridge and falling headfirst into the black nightwaters of the river and him following straightafter, scared shitless that that giant coat of his would take on water and sink the daft bastard right to the bottom…that made him aware of a hot, wet sensation spreading over his crotch; but the biggest relief of all was that both the ache and the pressure in his lower regions were gone.

He sighed, letting his body sag bonelessly back against the detective, who was still whispering into his ear. “Oh, such a _good_ boy, yes; Daddy’s so proud of you!” he said, moving his hand to cup the front of John’s nappy and squeeze gently.

The little doctor blushed and squirmed, as much for the praise being heaped on him as for the cupping and squeezing itself….not to mention that it was incredibly relieving to have the most humiliating part over and done with; all he had to do now was lay back and get cha—

_‘...Oh, shit.’_

Sherlock finished the thought for him, while lightly patting John’s sodden crotch. “There we go; stand-up so we can get you in a new nappy…”

John never thought it possible, but he blushed even more furiously as he rocked forward onto his knees and stood, looking down at the darkened, saggy padding.

Sherlock stood as well, beaming down at him and looking pleased-as-fucking-punch. There was a gleam in his eye as he took a few steps back and motioned for John to ‘come here’ with his hands; he held them out, palms up, grinning.

_‘Now, what is he…?’_

“Come along…come to Daddy!”

John sighed inwardly before playing along and reluctantly walking towards the detective…and was instantly made aware of his nappy squishing and swaying between his legs, causing him to _waddle_.

The smaller man’s shoulders slumped as he realized Sherlock’s game, and gave him a look of ‘C’mon, really???’

Sherlock only smiled back, the absolute picture of a ‘proud Daddy’, and made another grabbing motion with his hands, urging John forward.

 _‘Fuck me,”_ he thought…and then waddled forward into Sherlock’s waiting arms.

The detective chuckled as he gathered him to his chest and kissed the top of his head. “Daddy’s sweet lad…Let’s get you all cleaned up and out of that ‘icky’ nappy, yeah?” he said, falling back to his light, childish tone and hooking his hands under John’s arms, lifting him.

“Woah- _oh_!” John’s surprise was apparent…now that he wasn’t bawling and distracted, the feat wasn’t lost on him. He clung to Sherlock’s shoulders and wrapped his legs around his waist as they slowly climbed the stairs back to the bedroom. He looked down, staring at the way he was being held as if he weighed nothing, and then back to the man’s face… “H-how?” he stammered.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, the corner of his mouth turning up into a grin. “Proper weight distribution,” he said, obviously amused at John’s surprise. “…That, and having muscle tone hidden among the ‘skin and bones’ you so often liken me to.”

Before John could answer, Sherlock took advantage of the position he was holding the man in and swatted at his backside with one of the hands cradling it. “And _stop_ thinking those naughty words…Da’ saw that look on your face!”

John gasped sharply, more out of surprise than any actual pain, and then laid his head back on the detective’s shoulder with a pitiful whinge…that had been _entirely_ unfair.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sherlock replied, without missing a beat.

John sat up and stared at him for a moment, before resting his head again and reaching to play with the collar of the man’s shirt. _‘Mindreader,’_ he thought sarcastically.

Sherlock’s grin widened…”Maybe just a bit.”


	6. Chapter Six- Ch-ch-changes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a little deeper.

Once they were back in the bedroom, Sherlock carefully leaned over the bed and eased John down onto his back before standing and stretching. Blowing a puff of air from between his lips, he put both hands at the small of his back and pressed; “John may not be such a ‘little’ boy after all,” he grunted under his breath.

Well, perhaps not completely under his breath, if the indignant “Hey!” from below was anything to go by…he looked down to see a flustered little man with pinkened cheeks who was desperately trying to tug a too-small shirt over his slightly pudgy belly. Very slight, to be completely honest...he may have a small pouch in front, but John had always been a fairly lean individual. “Oh, now,” Sherlock chuckled, taking those struggling hands in his and leaning over again. “Da’ was only teasing; he _loves_ John’s tummy,” he continued, and placed a soft kiss on either side of the little doctor’s bellybutton. “But you’re right—that wasn’t very nice, and I’m sorry.”

John tried to remain grumpy, but that proved downright impossible at such sincere, heartfelt apologies…and he didn’t much mind the tummy-kisses, either. He gave a huff of air that could be construed as a giggle and squirmed at the touch, “…Again?” he asked in a soft, quiet voice, hunching his shoulders shyly.

Sherlock gasped playfully, his face brightening. “I never knew hobbits liked tummy-kisses…Oh, that is so _good_ to know!” he laughed, moving to rub the tip of his nose with John’s. “As much as you want,” he added, and went about the task of covering every bare inch of belly in loud, smacking kisses while he held on to John’s hips.

The little doctor shrieked and laughed loudly while trying to twist out of his grip in a half-hearted attempt to escape (who knew he’d be such a ticklish little thing???), only to find himself pretty well-pinned. “ _Nooo_ , no no no nonononono!” he squealed, without meaning a damn word of it, and waved his hands wildly with every intention of grabbing onto the blankets surrounding him…

…and somehow wound up with fistfuls of dark, curly hair instead.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and instantly froze; “‘No no no,’ indeed,” he said, reaching up to pry chubby fingers from his locks. “That’s a big ‘no-no’, John…we don’t pull hair!” As he continued to semi-scold the little doctor, he took each of the smaller man’s hands and spanked (well, more of a firm tap with his fingertips, really) the backs of them.

John lay there, stock-still, looking up at the detective with wide-eyed devastation; he genuinely hadn’t meant to do such a thing, and the realization that he’d slipped so deep into headspace without noticing it both surprised, and somewhat frightened him…

...that, and then the fact that he was absolutely crushed that he’d spoiled the game and put a stop to all the wonderful attention. “S-sorry,” he stammered, drawing his hands back to his chest and blinking away the rapidly-forming tears.

Sherlock, who had turned away to retrieve wipes, powder, and a new nappy, turned back to discover John’s upset demeanour and tears. The detective’s whole stance softened, and he put everything in his arms aside. “Tsk, such a sensitive little boy, aren’t you?” he tutted, sounding vaguely surprised, and reached down to stroke John’s cheek with his finger. “You’re all right…just because Da’ scolds you, it doesn’t mean he’s mad.”

John sniffled and nodded; Sherlock wasn’t the only one surprised by how timid the doctor’s ‘little’ side was turning out to be—it befuddled _him_ as well. Normally, if he had reason to think the other man was upset with him, John would simply tell him to ‘piss off’ or offer to buy him tampons and chocolate (that one had gotten an empty mug pitched at him; the next morning, Sherlock had awoken to find his sock index replaced with sanitary napkins), but this, this was just…

Headspace made it different, somehow…obviously so, because right now, the idea of Sherlock being mad at him was soul-crushing.

Right on cue, Sherlock smiled down at him and bent forward to give him a warm kiss on the forehead. “Daddy loves his little hobbit, even when he’s fussy… _especially_ when he’s fussy!”

John scrunched his face at the kiss and returned the smile with a small, shy one of his own. “Love Da', too,” he answered back.

Had there ever been a more genuine, bright, adoring look than the one that spread across the detective’s face at that moment, John would have been hard-pressed to discover it. “Sweet boy,” Sherlock chuckled; “Now, can Daddy take this cold, icky nappy off you and get you all cleaned up, yeah?” he asked, slipping a finger into the front waistband and tugging lightly.

John nodded again; “P’ease?” he asked, his eyes widening slightly as soon as the word left his mouth…he hadn’t particularly planned on using ‘babytalk’, but, well…there it was.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as well, in another of his comically exaggerated expressions, and he gasped as he popped open the container of wipes. “Good boy, _yes!_ We say ‘please’…such good manners!” he exclaimed, purposefully heaping loads of praise on his shy little hobbit. “See, didn’t Da’ tell you it would get easier if you relaxed?...Yes, yes he did!” he added, unable to stifle the ‘know-it-all’ attitude entirely.

Now, naturally, John’s default reply to such patronizing would be to roll his eyes and tell the man to ‘get stuffed’…but dammit, Sherlock was right once again, John admitted begrudgingly; he _was_ a bit more comfortable with it all, now that some of the more embarrassing aspects were out of the way, sooo…he crinkled his nose at the man, then shook his head and giggled.

“I did so tell you!” the detective playfully fussed at him while popping the tapes of John’s nappy and opening the front. “Soaked, _soggy_ little hobbit,” he said, and then his nose wrinkled slightly. “You…are certainly getting more water today, love.”

John felt his cheeks heat up again as he pouted…well, he’d _thought_ the embarrassing parts were over.

Sherlock took no notice of John’s change in temperament as he took a wipe and began to carefully go about washing the little doctor down, taking care to get all of the folds and nooks and crannies…

Or, at least he tried to...the very second John had felt a cold, wet touch at his privates, he’d gasped and reached down to cover himself with both hands. “ _No,_ ” he begged. “No more!”

Now, while Sherlock hadn’t particularly noticed the visual signs of John's attitude, there was no way he could have missed the reproach in that tone, nor the hands blocking his view; he looked up, puzzled. “But Da’ has to get you cleaned up, love…what’s the matter?” he asked, trying to nudge his hands out of the way.

“ _Cold!_ ” John insisted, not budging.

Sherlock’s jaw set and he closed his eyes while taking a deep breath through his nose…when he finally cracked one eye open to stare down at the nearly-nude little man, John could practically hear the ‘…Really?’ exuding from his gaze. “It’s not _that_ cold,” the detective said slowly, his other eye still cinched shut.

John shook his head and went right along pouting…he tried the same pitiful, wide-eyed look from before; “Cold, Daddy…don’t like it,” he added sadly, while making his bottom lip tremble.

Sherlock opened his other eye and, as John watched, narrowed his gaze and let his pupils dart over the smaller man, scanning him. The little doctor stuck with it, and even put the back of his hand to his cheek to help him appear as meek and helpless as possible…he even threw in a slight whimper for maximum affect.

The detective continued to scan over him like that for what felt like a lifetime (in actuality, it was only another few seconds), and John’s heart sank a little—surely his little act would be realized, and he’d be in for another scolding…but no, Sherlock’s expression only relaxed, and he brought the wipe in his hand up to his mouth, exhaling on it to warm it up. He then touched it to John’s inner thigh for a test; “Better now?” he asked.

John nodded and reluctantly… _very_ reluctantly…moved his other hand away from his bits. But just because he was being compliant now, didn’t mean that he was going to cease letting Sherlock know exactly how he felt about being poked and prodded. He fussed and snuffled and kicked his feet and tried to roll over, even as the taller man thwarted every escape attempt with a firm, steady grip. “…Someone’s getting put down for an early n-a-p,” the detective muttered, swiping over John’s bottom once more before dropping the wipe into the soiled nappy and then rolling the whole thing up to toss into the trash.

The little doctor’s eyes widened at this and he began arching against the hand holding his belly down in earnest, renewing his previous chant of “No no no no no no no…!” At least, he did until, during a decidedly adamant ‘no’, John felt something being popped into his mouth and held there, even as his tongue fought to spit it back out.

Sherlock held the light blue dummy he’d fished out of the nightstand drawer in place with his thumb while waiting John’s little baby-tantrum out. He cocked an eyebrow at the look of shock on the little doctor’s face; “Ah-ah-ah, leave it,” he said evenly. “John needs to settle down and listen to Daddy…especially when his bottom is such an easy target.”

The implied warning had its intended affect and John immediately lay flat on his back, going completely still except for the small movements of his jaw as he found his rhythm on the silicone nipple in his mouth. He tried to look down his nose at it, and only succeeded in making himself go a bit cross-eyed…it was definitely another ‘new’ experience, but in comparison to the overall scheme of things today, this was a pretty pleasurable one. When Sherlock finally removed his thumb, John reached up to hold his own fingers over it curiously, feeling it bob with each pull of his tongue…he looked up at Sherlock, blinking expectantly, and was quite ready for him to get on with it.

The detective stared back at him blankly for a beat pause, and then suddenly threw his head back, laughing loudly…John’s complete and total shift in gears was so, so _abrupt_ , like flipping a switch, that Sherlock found it absolutely hysterical. “That’s all you needed, wasn’t it?” he said in between laughs as he bent down to tickle under John’s chin. “Just something to keep you busy! Yes, you’re definitely Da’s boy!”

John tucked his chin down against Sherlock’s touch, giggling; the whole mood of the room had been lifted once more, and from such a simple act…both men were now more relaxed, more cheerful, brighter…

…because of a _dummy_.

Sherlock gave a short huff of air, signaling the end of his hysterics, and shook his head down at the smaller man…a large grin was still plastered on his face. “Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of giving you something to suck on sooner,” he said dryly, pushing John’s legs together and using one large hand to grasp him under the knees, and then lifted his lower half up just enough to slide a clean nappy underneath.

John kept his fingers at the plastic covering over his mouth, sucking away while watching Sherlock manhandle him…honestly, the way he could seemingly swing him around as if he were nothing but a ragdoll amazed the little doctor to no end—and, well…it was perhaps, you know, just a tiny bit…arousing. _‘Not that it matters,’_ he thought, with just tiny bit of bitterness (miniscule, really), because as soon as the detective had the nappy in place, he’d set John down, powdered him, and had the front up and taped into place before John’s cock could give him so much as a nod of ‘thank you kind sir’.

“All done!” Sherlock announced cheerfully, dusting his hands off before taking John under the arms and helping him sit up; now that he was becoming more familiar with it, the little doctor hardly noticed the extra bulk between his legs. He watched Sherlock and waited, doubly grateful for the dummy, and the excuse it gave him not to be talkative.

Sherlock smiled down at him and shook his head, then pulled the little doctor into a hug. “I know what you were expecting; don’t think I didn’t notice, or care,” he said, giving John a start…he hadn’t thought he’d been _that_ obvious. Sherlock chuckled at the reaction, “Just be patient, love…we’ll get to that in due time. No rush,” he added, and kissed the top of the smaller man’s head. “Now come along, we can play for a bit longer before we clean-up for lunch.”

John stood there and sulked, naturally, but recent events had just proven that it wasn’t always going to get him his way. He sighed around his dummy, acquiescing for the moment, and held his arms up to the other man…after all, Sherlock had carried him up here—he could damn well carry him back down.

…Or so he thought.

Sherlock gently took John’s outstretched arms and lowered them back at his sides as the smaller man watched, his puzzled expression causing his brow to furrow. “You’re going to have to walk downstairs, baby,” the detective said, treading carefully. “I can carry you all over this flat, as much as you want…within reason…but not going down; that’ll throw Da’s equilibrium off.”

John didn’t even acknowledge the sound reasoning; he only gazed up at Sherlock, his eyes already welling as he began to sniff and tremble—even his dummy started to bob furiously as the little doctor sucked on it in his upset.

“No, no-no-no,” Sherlock said quickly, in full-blown damage control. “Did you hear what Daddy said? As soon as we get downstairs, I’ll hold you as much as you want, I _promise_ , but it has to be down there…you don’t want us to take a tumble, do you?” he continued on, rambling a bit as he took hold of John’s hands and rubbed his thumbs over the knuckles.

Oh, John understood well-enough…but again, that didn’t mean he had to _like_ it. He sighed heavily around the nipple in his mouth and lowered his head, defeated under the unyielding logic Sherlock was spouting at him. “…P’omithe?” he asked in a near whisper, looking up at the other man through his eyelashes.

The corner of Sherlock mouth ticked up. “How could I not, with that face?” he said, chuckling low in his throat. He kept his hold on John’s hands and began to back out of the room, towards the stairs, drawing the little hobbit with him; “Come along, Little Master Baggins.”

The newfound term of endearment earned him one of the sweetest, most amazing smiles to beat all other smiles, with the corners of John’s mouth peeking up around the plastic edge of his ‘mute button’. _‘My precious,’_ he thought to himself with a grin, and keeping with the apparent theme of the day.

John ambled along as Sherlock led him back downstairs; the detective went backwards, one hand holding onto his little doctor and the other on the banister, and he had John mirror him. “Okay, now step…step…and step…there you go, such a big boy!” he said, gushing all over him for the simple feat. To anyone else, this level of attention and care, even cast on someone in ‘little’ headspace, might seem excessive…hell, it would probably seem downright ridiculous. But just as he does with everything else in his world, Sherlock has a very good reason behind it…

…This sort of attention is exactly what’s keeping John ‘little’ in the first place.

It was the micro-managing…the ‘hovering’, if you will…that kept the man from focusing for too long on any one particular thought—and keeping him Unfocused was what allowed his mind to relax and unveil the vulnerability that lay beneath the collected surface. Sherlock first discovered it when the lapses in John’s attention span began to occur soon after they became involved sexually; they often happened during heightened states of arousal, which (with most people…not all, but enough to make a pattern) is common enough, but the more the detective fanned the flames, the more illuminated the thin cracks in the doctor’s carefully constructed mental barriers became.

Sherlock had bidden his time, slowly but surely…he was a patient man, when the need arose…and when John let that tiny little comment—

_‘Maybe we should let you be Daddy for a day, then?’_

—he saw his opening, and he damn well took it.

And now…well, here they were; John toddling around in a nappy and little else, practically _gurgling_ at him, while Sherlock sat back and not only watched the walls come crashing down, but helped tear apart the bricks and mortar with his own bare hands.

_‘...My precious.’_

Sherlock finally reached the last step, and no sooner than he had his feet on solid ground, John was reaching for him once again, his little brow furrowing. “Up?”

Sherlock smiled so broadly that he was sure most, if not all, of his teeth were showing. “Yes, up,” he cooed, lifting the smaller man into his arms with a quiet grunt, and showered the side of his face in kisses as he carried him back into the sitting room.


	7. Chapter Seven- The Desolation of Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *just adding a trigger warning for my own peace of mind, for people who might just be happening upon this story with no clue as to the subject matter of the others or the way I write... _*waves*_  
>  This chapter does contain the spanking of an adult, and while there is plenty of fluff and snuggles and feel-good's afterwards, the events leading up to, and during, are not so sweet, and might just cause some discomfited feelings among some of you...if that's the case, I truly apologize, and suggest you skip this chapter*
> 
> Namaste, and peace be with you. ~Sadie~

Now, while Sherlock was proud to say he could lift and carry his rounded little halfling with relative ease, he had to admit (loathingly) that there were some limitations to his physicality…i.e., he couldn’t lean over too far without risking both of their well-beings. “Go on, put your legs down and climb off Da’…preferably before someone yells ‘timber’,” he said wryly, while trying to pry the little doctor loose from his ribcage.

John whinged a bit and clutched his dual handfuls of Sherlock’s flannel shirt even tighter; really, he was perfectly content to latch on and stay cuddled up to the man all day, if he was to have any say on it.

Which, apparently he _didn’t_ …unbeknownst to him, Sherlock had snuck a hand up near his side and was now wiggling a finger right in the little doctor’s armpit. John gasped and automatically tucked his arms in, and lowered his feet to keep from falling. He pushed at the invading hand and giggled furiously, until he happened to look down and pick up on the devious little trick. His head snapped up with a glare and an indignant grunt of “Uh- _uh_!”…or, as indignant as he could sound with a mouthful of nipple.

“Uh-uh- _huh_!” Sherlock replied, crossing his legs and sinking into a sitting position on the floor in one fluid motion, leaving John to stand and pout. “I guess you don’t want to play with Da’ anymore; how sad.”

Of course, the adult part of John’s mind that had been compacted and shut away in the back corner of his Mind Closet (it wasn’t a palace yet, but he was working on it) was all-too-familiar with this tactic; had used it himself on Sherlock several times, in fact, but dam-… _darn_ it, it was working! He wanted the man’s attention squarely back on him, right this second…so, he did what he had to do to make sure he got it; he dropped down to the floor and crawled straight over, then turned and plopped his padded bottom right back into Sherlock’s lap with a muffled *whump*, and then tilted his head back to look at him with a triumphant little grin.

Once the stars cleared from Sherlock’s vision and he could draw his breath again, Sherlock reached down to pat John’s thigh. “Okay…okay,” he wheezed, followed by a weak cough. “…John still wants to play; I get it...”

The little doctor just giggled and leaned back against his Daddy’s chest while wiggling his backside to get nice and comfortable. Sherlock coughed again and cleared his throat to return it to his normal pitch. “Yes, very funny… _hilarious_ ,” he muttered, picking up the small bag the soldiers had come in and beginning to gather them up.

When John finally happened to glance down and notice what he was up to, he was naturally confused; he reached out to grasp Sherlock’s wrist in an attempt to stop him. “Bu’, you th’aid we coul’ keep _playing_!” he protested, loudly enough for his dummy to fall out.

“And we will,” Sherlock replied, working himself free. “But we’re going to move on to something else and put the soldier’s away; no more upsetting war games, love.”

John looked over his shoulder at him, his mouth gaping. “But, but…no! I _like_ them!” he insisted, and made a desperate grab for the bag. “I won’t cry anymore, I swear!”

“John, _no_ ,” Sherlock replied, his tone firm, yet calm, and held the bag out of his reach. “I said we’re putting them away for now.”

The little doctor grunted and stretched forward as far as he could, fingers grasping, but he was simply no match for Sherlock’s abnormally long, monkey-ish limbs; John scowled darkly and slapped both palms against the floor in his frustration.

“Are you quite done?” the other man asked, his voice clipped, as he watched the spectacle unfold right there in his lap with a raised eyebrow. Yes…an early naptime was looking more and more likely by the moment.

John refused to answer; he only folded his arms and flopped his chin down onto them with a huff, his bottom half still lying on top of Sherlock, and glared daggers at the bag dangling in front of him. This caused the detective to frown in turn—he was certainly going to address this kind of behavior…perhaps with a few sharp slaps to the hint of pudgy cheeks hanging out from under the leg holes of his nappy…but that was going to have to wait; he was going to get these little conflict-creators put away, right this moment. He brought the bag back and gathered another handful of green plastic men…

John took the opportunity to pop up straightaway and snatch the bag right out of Sherlock’s hand, then brought it to his chest and hunched over it protectively, with a loud, abrupt shout of “NO!”

Sherlock’s hand was still poised in mid-air, while he gawked at the smaller man’s slouched back. _‘…Did he just…he did just… **really?!?** ’_ When the immediate shock of such blatant disobedience wore off, the detective’s face clouded over, and his jaw set. “John…” he said slowly, quietly, “…Give. That. Back.”

John shook his head and curled up into an even tighter ball than before, completely oblivious as to just how close he was to the brink. “No!... _Mine_!”

Sherlock stiffened, the mere cloud that had settled over his features boiling over into a thunderhead as he fought the urge to flip John over in his lap and start wailing away on his bum right then and there. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, held it, and then released it slowly—the next thing John knew, an arm was snaking around the front of his torso and pulling him upright, then held his flush against Sherlock’s chest. Instinctively, the little doctor squirmed and pushed away in an attempt to scramble out of the detective’s lap, until he found himself locked in place…

John became aware of a large, looming presence over his shoulder, followed by a hot gust of air on his neck; “You…are one _very_ short step away from _very_ serious trouble, young man,” hissed a low, dark voice in his ear, and the little hobbit of a man ceased his wriggling. The voice continued on, “Now, give…it…back. _One…_ ”

John’s eyes widened as nearly every drop of petulance oozed from his pores in a sheen of nervous sweat. Sherlock was angry…Oh, _yes_ , Daddy was very, very angry, but…but…all he wanted to do was play army again! Surely if he started behaving now, Daddy would see that and reconsider?...It had worked during the nappy change!

…Worth a shot.

John craned his neck to peer back up at Sherlock, his eyes still wide and owlish, and poked his bottom lip out…but _oh_ , the look the man was giving him! With his brow set low and his lips pinched, along with the harsh cut of his jawline, the detective looked more like…well, more like ‘the detective’, rather than a Daddy about to deal with a naughty little hobbit. He shrank back a bit, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been so recently ‘emptied’, John just might have pissed a little…funnily enough, as he also noted that his mouth had now gone completely dry. Were he not scared absolutely witless, he would have pointed out the observation to Sherlock to see if he had anything to say on the matter, but…well…

Now was _not_ the time.

Instead, John licked his lips with his dried-out tongue, and tried to look as meek as he felt at the moment. “Pl...please? I, I just want to play with them again; I’ll be good this time, I promise!...Please, Da’?” he begged in a tremulous voice.

Something behind the man’s eyes flickered…just for a micro-second…but after a nearly undetectable shake of his head, it was gone. “No; what did I say this morning, hm? That if John couldn’t listen, he was going to get a…?” Sherlock let his voice trail off, leading the smaller man to his own conclusion, and held up two fingers to signal the next step of ‘the count’.

John’s face crumbled, while the feeling of dread that had begun in the pit of his stomach started working itself up into his throat—he definitely didn’t _want_ a spanking…but he wasn’t going to give up his men so easily, either. He shook his head and turned away, curling his fingers around the neck of that bag hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

He felt, as well as heard, Sherlock sigh; “…Stand up.”

A terrible “Noooo…!” bubbled up from John’s throat in the form of a low moan, and he turned to face Sherlock once more. “Please don’t…not that, _please_!” he begged shamelessly. “I, I just want to _play_!”

The detective stared down at him hard, studying him. “…And we could have, would have been, if you’d only listened—when Daddy tells you to do something, you do it, and that’s exactly what you’re about to get a lesson in. Now…stand up.”

John gaped at him, still in disbelief that this was even happening, and shook his head; this just wasn’t fair! “But, but I, I would let _you_!” he said, his voice cracking in his panic.

Sherlock, for all his mental dexterity, hadn’t foreseen that one coming, and it showed; “…What did you say?”

John’s eyes began to sting; tears were reforming in their corners, and he tried to blink them back…he couldn’t tell yet if this was working in his favour, or not. “I’d let you keep play…playing,” he insisted, ending with a suppressed sob that sent a tremor throughout his body.

The other man didn’t answer right away; he took his time and regarded the trembling, red-faced little form in his lap with a blanketed expression…John could see the gears cranking behind his eyes, but there was no other sign of what was to be his fate. The little doctor watched him just as intently, not even bothering to try and conceal his nerves…his fingers flexed around the cloth bag in his grip, tight enough for John to feel his own pulse in them.

The silence stretched on for so long (well, it felt that way to John, at least; in reality, it was less than a full minute), that the little doctor began to feel restless and fidgety…which it what made it doubly shocking when Sherlock took him by his hips and whirled him around in his lap, putting them face-to-face. John drew in a sharp breath at the suddenness of it all and contemplated the man in silent awe; he was still astonished by the fact that Sherlock could overpower him so easily, as well as how much it added to the mentality of being a small child…at the same time, part of him still felt a small barb of jealousy that he couldn’t do the same for the detective.

But the time for such musings was brought to an abrupt end, as Sherlock held firmly to his right shoulder with one large hand and used the other to lift and hold his chin in place. John quickly jerked his hands behind his back, protecting his soldiers to the very end.

Sherlock saw the movement, but made no move to deter it. “Who am I, John?” he asked slowly, his voice calculating. The simplicity of the question actually threw the little doctor; there were never any easy questions, only traps. “Da-daddy?” he replied, and he couldn’t mask the uncertainty beneath it.

“That’s right…and who are you?”

The lines across John’s forehead deepened; there was a trick to this line of questioning, there _had_ to be, and he tried his hand at deducing Sherlock for any clues as to gain the edge. But the only thing he succeeded in gaining was additional scrutiny under the other man’s gaze until John could no longer stand it, and tried to turn away…but Sherlock would have none of that. “Who are you?” he repeated.

John pouted, his thwarted attempts turning him sullen. “I’m Jawn,” he mumbled, and averted his gaze, which was one of the last few things that Sherlock _couldn’t_ control.

The detective cocked his eyebrow; “Correct, you’re ‘Jawn’,” he said, adopting the childish pronunciation. “Now that we have names established…which one of us makes the rules?”

“…Daddy does,” he pouted further.

“And who follows those rules?”

“…Jawn does,” the little doctor added after several moments (and a small, encouraging shake of his shoulder).

“Smart little boy,” the detective said dryly. “Yes, Daddy makes the rules, and Jawn follows them; that is what’s happening now, between Da’ and Jawn…no one else.”

John stuck his bottom lip waaaay out there, and ‘hmph’ed through his nose; obviously, being cute wasn’t as helpful as he’d imagined it would be.

Sherlock’s frown deepened and his eyes narrowed into slits; “…Up,” he said again, the sense of finality in that one word weighing in heavily between the two men. John felt the grip on his chin loosen ever-so-slightly, and took the chance to shake his head vehemently and give him a glare that mirrored his own, then gave a shout of… “ _NO!_ ”

The taller man’s eyes widened comically, causing his eyebrows to all but disappear into the curtain of dark hair that framed his forehead…and then all hell broke loose. In the span of mere seconds, Sherlock’s whole face reset into a look that John had come to know well (he’d seen it many a time in the heat of a good chase) as he lifted the little doctor straight out of his lap and onto the floor, clutching his bicep in an iron-grip while he hauled himself out of the floor and stood, dragging John along with him.

John didn’t even have the time to spare a yelp as he was spun around to face a man who had a mission…one that he was determined to carry out. With one hand still gripping the stubborn little hobbit of a man’s upper arm, Sherlock held out his free hand expectantly. “Give them here, _now_ , and I’ll let you keep your nappy on,” he declared, in a tone that should have invited no arguments… ‘should’ being the operative word.

John stuttered and stammered until his wits returned to him…then shook his head again. “No!” he spat, and held the bag steadfast in his white-knuckled grip.

Sherlock took another deep breath, puffing himself up like (the way it looked to John, at least) a ruffled hen. “All _right_ ,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Da’ tried to be nice; you remember that.” In another moment of motion-blurring speed that defied the laws of physics, the man yanked John close to his chest and pinned him there while he reached around his struggling body…

…and yanked the bag free.

John’s mouth fell completely open and, without truly comprehending his actions, let out an ear-splitting screech while he put both hands flat against his Daddy’s chest, trying to push away and reclaim his captured army. “ _HEY!!!_ ” he shouted, twisting his body around and grasping for them. “ _Those are **mine**_!!!”

Sherlock held them out at arm’s length, well out of a certain fussy…no, downright _furious_ …little red-faced hobbit’s reach, his frown deepening by the second. “Jawn…” he warned for what was to be the last time.

But John either refused to acknowledge him, or was genuinely too focused on his men to hear the man…he grunted and streeeeeeeeetched his fingers as far as he could, leaning against the restrictive arm wrapped around him, but it just wasn’t far enough; he scowled as he balled his hands into fists and drew them back at his sides, glaring up at Sherlock savagely. “ _ **Give’em back!**_ ” he demanded, and stomped his foot for emphasis.

The next thing John knew, the inside of 221B was spinning around him as he was nearly tugged off of his feet; he shut his eyes to keep from getting dizzy and when he felt the world grow still again, he opened them…he was in the kitchen now, and Sherlock…

Sherlock was pulling a chair into the middle of the room.

The very sight of it instantly dissolved any defiance the little doctor had mustered; John felt his knees turn to jelly and begin to quiver as the low, heavy ball of dread resettled into the pit of his stomach. His free hand swooped back in a futile attempt to protect his backside, which was already starting to tingle in anticipation. “D-da’…?” John stammered, at last realizing the brevity of the situation.

Sherlock shook his head; “Mm-mm, no,” he replied, his voice carrying the air of finality. “No, I gave you a chance… _several_ chances…and you decided to throw a wobbler and shout and stomp at me; well, little man, Da’ is not having that…you’re going to get that stroppy little bottom of yours spanked!”

John heard him (there was no way he could have missed him!) for certain, but it wasn’t until Sherlock had seated himself in the chair and was reaching for the tapes on his nappy, that the full scale of what was about to happen struck him…so to speak. In his panic, his hands flew to intercept the detective’s (the irony of which wouldn’t strike him until the following week, when he would come to realize mid-wank that it had been almost exactly how Sherlock had reacted to his first trip over John’s knee…and then Sherlock had ruined it by telling him that that wasn’t the correct usage of ‘irony’) while he began to plead weakly. “W-wait, don’t! I, I won’t do it again, r-really!”

The detective said nothing and, after collecting both of John’s wrists in one hand and holding them well out of the way, tore open both sides of the garment and allowed it to fall to the floor with a soft *puff*. John looked down at it longingly…he never once thought he’d actually be sorry to see it go.

Then, he became aware of a pull at his wrists; Sherlock was now tugging him to his side, the harshness of his angular, set features belied by the calm, easy way he was handling the little doctor now…and for good reason, John thought, as he felt the first insistent edges of panic curling up and flicking at his heart. Any more jerking around or raised voices, and he may well just dissolve into a puddle on the floor. “Please,” he said, barely registering above a whisper, “…don’t spank…no spanking, Daddy, _please?_ ”

Sherlock kept his gaze angled down, and even in John’s openly vulnerable mental state, he recognized that he was _purposefully_ not looking him in the face. The little doctor bent and tilted his head this way and that, trying anything and everything, all while continuing to plead and beg for mercy (that would turn out to be not forthcoming) just once, just this _once_ , just to get his Daddy to _look_ at him, meet his eyes!...

But, that didn’t happen…Sherlock continued to guide John over his lap, using his free hand to push at the small of the shorter man’s back when he resisted laying down. John went with a sound that was half-whimper, half sigh, and put his hands flat on the floor for balance. Despite his somewhat-collected outward appearance, John’s mind was in an absolute frenzy; oh, sure, he’d been spanked before (more times than he cared to remember, really), but _never_ bare, and definitely _not_ over someone’s knee…he’d always been bent over whatever had been handy at the time, and at the very least, had been allowed to keep his shorts up. The fact that he was now _both_ —nude from the waist down and draped over Sherlock’s lean thighs in such a defenseless, exposed, and susceptible fashion—made it all the more overwhelming.

While he lay there, trembling and staring down at the tile floor, he felt the detective shifting him around… _‘Making adjustments,’_ he thought with a small moan. Sherlock reached across his back, effectively holding him in place with his elbow between the little doctor’s shoulders while his hand rested at his hip. At the same time, he moved the leg that John’s bum was draped over and propped that foot up on the bottom rung of the chair, causing the smaller man to bend at a more obvious angle and present his bottom nice and high.

John felt all of this taking place and relinquished himself to it sadly, his face already scrunching at the feeling of his bare arse being so ‘out in the open’ while his feet dangled helplessly above the floor…and he’d thought the nappies, the dummy, and the scoldings had made him feel small! This was just, just…

John Watson…was nothing more than Sherlock Holmes’s baby, at last.

He sniffled loudly and tucked his arms close to either side of his chest, clinging to his Daddy’s leg like a little barnacle; John then took a big risk (he was already in deep trouble, anyway) and peeked back over his shoulder, his bottom lip poking out slightly. “Da’…” he said, going for one last plea…and this time, he didn’t have to force himself to sound meek and tearful.

Now, with being so distraught, John could have very easily been imagining things…after all, he could only get a strained glimpse of Sherlock’s face from this angle…but he could have sworn that, when the other man finally glanced down and caught the little doctor’s eye…John could have sworn that there was a flash of hesitation there, that he looked as if he may reconsider the whole thing, right then and there. John’s heart gave a little flutter of hope, and he craned his neck a little further…but that was all dashed as Sherlock shook his head, and the little doctor felt a frighteningly large hand (dear _God_ , it covered a whole cheek! He wasn’t, he couldn’t!...there was no way he was going to make it through this!) pat the lower half of his bum.

“…Why is Daddy going to spank you, Jawn?”

John’s face fell and he hung his head, staring down at the worn linoleum, defeated. “Be…because I, I didn’t listen,” he replied sadly.

“…And?” Another pat.

John flinched and screwed his eyes shut so tightly, that he saw sparks behind his lids. “And, um…not bein’, uh…not bein’ nice?”

The hand at his bottom was suddenly lifted and John tensed, waiting.

“Da’ told you to put the soldiers away, didn’t he?” his Daddy continued, and before the smaller man laying over his lap could answer, let his hand fall back with a loud clap.

John lurched forward with a quick grunt, his eyes flying open…at first, he thought that that wasn’t too bad; the swat itself hadn’t really hurt, not like the earlier ones on his legs had…but those thoughts quickly evaporated as a slow, deep burn started gathering right under Sherlock’s hand, and only grew worse from there. John wiggled and groaned; “Yes siiiiir…!”

“And you didn’t do that, did you?” There was another short pause, followed by a matching slap on his opposite cheek.

The little doctor clutched at Sherlock’s leg, feeling his fingers dig into the rough denim. “N-no, sir!” he sniffled.

“Mm-mm, no, you didn’t,” Sherlock said precisely, again in that blasted ‘it’s-so-obvious-you-idiots’ tone of his, and since John fully expected the pattern to continue with another heavy swat…well, that just made the proceeding flurry of sharp, stinging slaps that began landing all over his bare bottom a doubly-nasty surprise.

So surprising and unexpected, in fact, that the shock of them took the breath right out of John’s lungs; all he could do was cling to Daddy, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull while his mouth dropped open…as the onslaught of Sherlock’s palm continued with no break in sight ( _God_ , how could he move that quickly?!?), the little doctor’s face scrunched with each slap, looking more and more distressed by the second, until finally, _finally_ , the spanking stopped…

John took one good, deep breath…and wailed at the top of his lungs.

“ _Aaah **Oww** uuhhuh **uhhuh** iieeee!_”

Sherlock, who’d already had his hand raised back, waiting, winced and felt his heart clench. At first, when he’d started realized that the little doctor wasn’t making a sound, he’d thought that that obnoxious stubborn streak of John’s was rearing its head, and that he was staying silent as a form of challenge…

Obviously, that wasn’t the case.

The detective lowered his hand and rubbed the chubby set of cheeks displayed over his lap, checking things over; John felt a touch warmer than normal, and was just beginning to flush from pink to red…Sherlock surmised that it was still the shock of the situation that was frightening the pitiful little man more than the actual pain. He chewed his lip, thinking…he _could_ stop now…

But then again…what would ‘Daddy John’ do, in this very situation?

While Sherlock was contemplating, John’s caterwauling had reduced itself to heavy sniffling, and he blinked back the beginnings of stinging tears in his eyes. He peeked over his shoulder again; “O-over, Da-ah’?” he snuffled.

Sherlock blinked, snapping himself out of his own head and glancing down at John from the corner of his eye, and then made his decision; “…No, I’m afraid not, lad,” he said, and sounded genuinely disheartened to say it. “Jawn was very, _very_ naughty, and I’m going to give you a good, sore reminder now, so that I don’t have to again later.” And with that, he picked up right where he’d stopped off.

John snapped forward again and howled; _oh_ , those were even harder than before! He tried to keep still, he really did, but once the entire surface of his bum started to sting and burn and throb all at once, while slap after sharp slap kept landing and only added more pain to the already unbearable level, that was all he could focus on…unaware of anything else but the searing, white-hot _agony_ , John’s legs began to kick out and flail, as did his arms, desperate for something to grab onto, to center him—seemingly finding nothing (he’d forgotten all about grabbing onto Sherlock’s trousers…completely forgotten all about them, honestly!), he had to settle for grabbing handfuls of his own hair. And through all of it, _all of it_ , was the constant, rhythmic ***SMACK SMACK SMACK*** of Sherlock’s palm on his upturned backside, over and over and _over_ , until the little doctor was limited to loud, open-mouthed sobbing.

“ _S-soor-rry, sorrysorrysorrys-soorrrr’eeee!_ ” he babbled, while tears, snot, and spittle ran down his face. “ _S-stop, stop…Daddy **pleasss’top!**_ ”

To John’s amazement (and immense relief!), the spanking did, indeed, stop. Sherlock laid his hand gently on top of the little doctor’s bottom, and John could swear that he heard it sizzle…

It certainly _felt_ like it did, anyway.

“…Are you going to start listening to what Da’ says?” came the slow, deep rumble that John was so accustomed to and he nodded quickly, while sputtering a near-frantic “Y-y-ye-es, y-yes s-sir-ir!”

“Shhh, slow down,” a calm voice answered, and there was an equally calm hand at his back. “Now, listen…listen close to what Daddy’s going to ask.” Sherlock paused here, and John realized through his blubbering that he was waiting for an acknowledgement. He gave him a weak nod; “L-lis…listening,” he coughed, and turned to look over his shoulder once more, his breath hitching and shaking.

Sherlock was looking directly at him for the first time since this venture had begun, his expression serious. “…Are you going to let go when I tell you to, from now on?”

John nodded again, quick as anything and ready to agree to anything and everything Sherlock could think to ask of him. “Y-yes, I, I, I w-will, I, I’ll be, be g-good, prom…promise!” he begged in between bouts of sniveling.

Sherlock frowned…for whatever reason, that wasn’t the answer that he was waiting to hear. “No, Jawn, that’s not what I…”

John interrupted him, still in hysterics, and not showing any signs of calming. “N-no, I, I w-will, I s-swear…any, anyth-thing, j-just, just, n-no’more….n’more _spanking!_ ” he finished with a strained, wheezing breath as he looked at Sherlock with swollen, raw-looking eyes, while fat, heavy tears continued to roll down his cheeks.

Sherlock stopped, looked at him, and then sighed…he softened instantly, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the small of John’s back, mumbling something about “…not ready…” He sat up, his hand rubbing in easy, smooth glides down the backs of the little doctor’s legs. “Jawn’s such a good, sweet little boy…spanking’s over.”

John heaved a sob of relief and let Sherlock help him move off of his lap; he slid his lower half down, kneeling first, with his bottom well-away from pressing against anything, and then helped him stand on shaky legs before going to putter around with the cabinets and the sink. The little doctor didn’t really notice with what, exactly, nor did he particularly care…he was too preoccupied with rubbing the sting out of his aching bottom with both hands, his head hanging towards the floor and crying quietly.

Next thing he knew, John heard a soft _“…Aw,”_ in front of him, and Sherlock was taking one of his hands…not to stop him from rubbing, but to lead him back into the sitting room. “Come along, sweetheart…don’t forget your nappy.”

The chastised little doctor sniffled and begrudgingly stopped rubbing just long enough to stoop over and gather it from the floor…and immediately straightened back up and rocked forward onto his toes, his tears starting anew as he frantically reached back for his bum. Poor little John; the motion of bending over had only served to stretch out the skin and put pressure on his soundly spanked bottom, magnifying the already-intense throbbing sensation.

Sherlock took one look at him and relented, picking up the nappy himself; he could well-empathize with his little one now, after having been on the receiving end more times than either of them could count anymore. “Oh, bless,” he sighed, giving John’s hand a squeeze and leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “Da’ll make it all better the best that he can, promise.”

John didn’t (couldn’t) answer; he could only sob and hiccup and cough as his Daddy led him over to the couch, with one hand still firmly plastered to his scalded backside. At least, that’s where it stayed until Sherlock eased it away, so he could put the nappy back on while John was still upright. The little doctor bawled all over again at the touch of anything (anything that wasn’t his own hand, mind) chafing his raw end, even as soft as the padded lining was, and he wriggled against it…oh, this was just _awful_.

“Sh-sh-shhh,” Sherlock hushed him gently, then took a seat on the couch and drew him into his lap. It took a bit of maneuvering, along with a bit of sniveling and whimpering, until John was finally in a comfortable position; he was lying on his side, facing his Da’, with his head nestled in the crook of his elbow. “There now,” Sherlock said quietly, using the arm his tearful little hobbit was resting on to pat his back in a soothing pace. “Time to settle, love…you’re ready for a good nap, I’d say.”

John blinked up at him, his lamentations having slowed off to a few heaving sniffles, and nodded while nuzzling his cheek against Sherlock’s chest. “…Daddy?” he whispered, his voice croaky-sounding.

“Hmm?” the detective hummed in answer, as he carefully wiped at John’s eyes with the pad of his thumb.

“Thirsty.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up into a grin, and he gave a short chuckle to go with it. “I’d imagine so, after that kind of fussing,” he said, and reached for something on the coffee table in front of them. “That’s why I made one of these,” he continued, and then sat back and held up one of his bottles, the striped one, filled with what looked to be regular water.

A faint, teary smile appeared on John’s face. “No milk, Da’?”

“No, no milk…not unless Jawn wants a colony of the _Yersinia Enterocolitica_ that I’m cultivating growing in his tummy, and I really don’t think you do,” Sherlock teased, then held the nipple to John’s lips. “Plus, your urine had a particularly pungent arouma earlier; _you_ aren’t taking in enough fluids, young man,” he added, tapping him on the nose with his pinkie finger. “Water’s the best thing for you right now.”

John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock _why_ he was growing a bacterium that was capable of causing severe intestinal distress in their milk (and to tell him that he’d better damn well NOT have it in the refrigerator with the rest of their food), and was promptly cut-off by a rubber nipple being pushed between his parted lips. He coughed and gagged out of sheer surprise, but in the end, he gave a soft sigh and latched on, suckling it…

Sherlock would always be ‘Sherlock’, even when he was Daddy, as well.

Just as he had with the dummy, John took to the bottle quite well, and with barely a complaint…which, really, the leftover sniffles and occasional heave of his chest could hardly be called ‘complaints’; rather, they were the acknowledgments of a sore backside, with no one else but himself to blame.

It was after one such hiccup, a noticeably strong one, that Sherlock leaned over to get a good look at the results of a lesson well-learned. He gently hooked his thumb under the leghole of the nappy and lifted it up, peeking underneath…he clucked his tongue sympathetically at the sight; a good twenty minutes had passed since the last swat, and John was still aglow.

“Poor little hobbit,” he cooed, easing his thumb away so the edge wouldn’t snap back painfully. “Looks like the big, mean dragon burned him up!”

Had it been made under any other circumstances, John would have given a good, hearty chortle at a crack like that…but at present, he was still a bit too freshly-spanked and weepy to enjoy it. He sniffled again and stroked his cheek along the soft flannel of Sherlock’s shirt, while one hand gripped the bottom hem of it and curled it around his fist.

Sherlock laid his head back and huffed dryly before glancing down at the little doctor again. “You’re breaking my heart, love…it was just a _spanking_! A well-deserved one, at that!”

John only blinked up at him sadly, and continued to nurse his bottle with a quiet whimper.

“I am _not_ going to be made to feel guilty…especially not guilty enough to not do it again, if it’s earned,” Sherlock went on, though whom he was trying to convince more…John or himself…was up for debate.

The corners of John’s lips turned downwards and he nodded, his eyes welling again.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, the shook his head; “ _No_ , that’s not going to…” There was a pause, then another sigh…this one sounded more resigned. “Close your eyes, Master Baggins…it’s naptime for little toy-burglars,” the detective said quietly, and in such soft, gentle, loving tones that John nearly wept all over again.

But, he didn’t…the whole venture had been a taxing one, and was taking its toll—both physically as well as mentally. John gladly obeyed this time and closed his swollen, aching eyes while Sherlock kept patting his back, and took to slowly rocking his exhausted little halfling.

The detective watched as the sucking noises slowed off and John’s face went slack, and when he eased the nearly-empty bottle away, he gave a silent thrill as the little doctor’s mouth continued to work as if it were still there…he also mentally berated himself for not having his bloody- _fucking_ phone on him the one time he would have liked it the most. He set the bottle aside and kept rocking while he wrapped both arms around the still form in his lap, gently swaying forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, despite the awkward positioning. But then, he paused, and looked away from John to glance about the room, a frown creasing his forehead…

There was something…something _missing_.

But for now, he waited…he waited until John’s breathing grew slow and shallow before lifting him up just enough to slide out from under him; Sherlock carefully rolled the little doctor onto his tummy, stopping when the movement jostled him and patting his back again to get him resettled, and then covered him in one of the detective’s own soft, silky blankets (the pale green one with the monkeys on it, and bananas lining the satin border). Sherlock paused, crouching next to the sofa, his face next to John’s, and then slowly, gently reached out to brush the hair from his slightly damp forehead before lightly pressing his lips to it.

Sherlock stood and moved silently about the room, making sure all the soldiers were put away and that John’s dummy was safely in his pocket for now, until he could wash it thoroughly and have it ready and waiting for the little guy when he finally awoke. Once that was done, he drew the curtains together and collected his own laptop from the table near the window, and then carried it into the kitchen so all the ticking and clacking of the keys wouldn’t disturb the baby’s nap…

It seems that he had a bit of shopping to get done, in the meantime.


	8. Chapter Eight- Food for the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *trigger warning: some slightly disturbing imagery in the beginning of this chapter*

John was running.

He was running through a labyrinth of tall buildings that rose up on either side, creating the shadowed alleyways that always seemed to make up the thickest parts of the city, and doing his best to keep up after Sherlock…or trying to, at most; for no sooner than he would round one corner, following the hollow echo of clunking footsteps, he would catch a fleeting glimpse of billowing black coat just as the man darted into another alley. Shouts of “Keep up, John!...You have to _keep **up**_!” rolled and bounced off the stone walls, assaulting him from every feasible direction.

The doctor tried to call out, tried to respond…but his tongue lay still in his mouth, feeling thick, heavy and utterly immobile, no matter how hard he tried. He could only urge himself to run faster, his lips moving in a silent plea for Sherlock to wait, _please_ wait, don’t leave him behind…!

Soon, though, even with his legs pumping as fast as he could manage, Sherlock got too far ahead. John could no longer see him, and any footfalls he heard seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once; he stopped and listened, feeling his mouth forming Sherlock’s name, the muscles in his jaw and neck stretching as he tried to force a yell, but again…silence. And now, the footsteps had stopped...he didn’t have anything to go on anymore.

But then, was that…? Yes, there was; there was a noise from somewhere off behind him…someone was laughing, laughing in a horrible, hideous, _maniacal_ sort-of braying way. John turned, following the direction of the sound…he turned, and suddenly the giant, greyscale towers were gone and he was out in the open, somewhere like a field—no, not a field…he wasn’t down amongst the buildings anymore.

He was on top of them.

And there, there on the edge…oh, _God_ , it was Sherlock. Sherlock was the source of the hysterical laughter, and even after he lifted one long, disjointed arm to point squarely at the doctor, it took John one full turn while whipping his head from side to side to realize that he was laughing at _him_. He felt a shout rising in his throat and finally, _finally_ , he managed to squeeze out a weak _“…no…”_ as he reached for him and started to run, to try and stop him, because he couldn’t watch _this_ , not again, not ever again…but now, his feet were the ones that refused to work in lieu of his tongue. John struggled to lift his leg, feeling as if they both weighed several hundred pounds apiece, and when he looked down, he discovered the real problem…he was knee-deep in sand. Sand was everywhere, piles upon piles of _sand_ , weighing him down, keeping him rooted; he lost his balance and fell forward, throwing his arms out to catch his fall and then reaching, grasping fistfuls of it as he attempted to drag and claw his way to the man.

And Sherlock…oh, _Jesus Christ_ , Sherlock…Sherlock was still laughing at him, his face contorting horrifically…his jaw unhinged, gaping wider and wider with each discordant laugh, until the skin at the corners began to split and tear and bleed. He pointed at John again, his finger twisting and stretching into a grotesque talon. _“LoOk aT YoU, you CriPPleD **FuCk** ,”_ it spat, its voice as garbled as its face, causing big globs of blood and saliva to ooze from the corners of its mouth in clumps; John could hear them landing with vile _*splats*_ on top of the sand around him.

And John reached; he reached for it, even as his brain screamed that _no_ , that wasn’t Sherlock, that wasn’t _his_ Sherlock, but he still reached and tried to cry out as the not-Sherlock thing turned its body…its head still facing him, still laughing, still coating the sand at its feet with slick, shiny gore…and then pitched itself off the building, its coat flapping around it like great big wings…

*******

John twitched violently, and opened his eyes.

He simply lay there for a moment (or several moments) trembling, while his eyes darted about the silent, darkened room… and it wasn’t until they fell upon the outline of Sherlock’s chair across from him that he remembered where he was, why he was there, and who he was with—

And why his backside was still smarting something fierce.

John snuffled and pushed himself up (gingerly) into a sitting position, rubbing at his gritty-feeling eyes with the heel of his hand. The darkness of the room was a touch disorienting…he thought that it was much later than it actually was, until he realized that Sherlock had drawn the curtains closed while he slept…but it was the silence that was the worst; John hugged himself tightly, his eyes already welling up as he imagined, for just a brief moment, that Sherlock had been called away on a new case, and interesting case, and had left him here, by himself…

Until he caught the faint tapping and clicking sounds of a keyboard coming from the kitchen.

John should have felt relief…expected to, actually…but was taken by surprise at the inexplicable feeling of nervousness that settled over him as he stood up from the couch (albeit a bit unsteady on his feet) and began to shuffle his way over to the kitchen, wincing as the edges of his nappy rubbed against some of the sorest parts of his bum…he took a grand total of two steps before pausing to rub and then, after considering it for a split second, turned back to snag the corner of his blanket and toss it over his shoulder.

The little doctor crept up to the edge of the wall dividing the two rooms and waited for the tapping to continue before leaning in and peeking around the corner, and nearly let out a sob of relief…there, at the kitchen table, his face under-lit by the glow of the screen, was Sherlock.

_‘Daddy…’_

Whatever Sherlock was doing onscreen, it had his full attention…John still hadn’t been noticed yet. It also must not have been successful, because as the little doctor watched, a deep frown creased Sherlock’s brow and he leaned back in his chair, putting a finger to his lips as he studied the screen intently.

John clung to his blanket and hugged it to the crook of his neck, wishing that he still had his dummy from earlier; he was almost tempted to try his thumb, but even as he inched it towards his mouth, he gave a soft, discouraged sigh and tucked it back underneath his chin…it just didn’t feel the same.

“Well hello, sleepyhead.”

John’s head snapped up quickly; Sherlock was still sitting at the table, but his gaze was fixed directly on the little doctor, and he was smiling now. “Did you have a nice nap?”

John didn’t answer straightaway; when he first observed Sherlock frowning, he’d been undecided on whether he should bother him, or simply go back and lie quietly until Daddy came to fetch him. And his uncertainty was still apparent—he kept his head bowed as he lingered near the wall, and only acknowledged the question with a small nod.

The smile on Sherlock’s face faltered and he squinted through the glow of his screen, trying to see John more clearly. “…Are you alright, baby?” he asked, and reached to flip the light switch on the wall next to him.

The room quickly filled with bright, fluorescent light and John blinked against it at first, then covered his eyes with a small whinge; when he finally lowered his hand, there was a certain you-know-who looming right in front of him, looking down with a concerned expression.

John hadn’t even heard his chair scrape the floor when he got up.

Sherlock continued to stare down at him, nonplussed. “What…?” he began to ask, but then let his voice trail off as his gaze slowly scanned over John from head-to-toe; the little doctor winced and looked away—the detective was ‘reading’ him.

Finally, there came a gentle response; “Oh…” he said, reaching out to cup John’s cheek…which, despite himself, the little doctor leaned into. “Bad dreams, little one?”

John kept his gaze lowered, and nodded.

“Hmmm…come along; come sit with Daddy,” the man said, putting a hand between John’s shoulders and steering him to the previously vacated chair. Sherlock sat first, of course, and then helped the halfling climb into his lap while being mindful of his backside. He said nothing else, which came as both a relief _and_ a grievance to the little doctor…well, John was glad that he didn’t have to recount the circumstances of his dream, but, you know, Sherlock could at least ask about it, or express some interest…?

Once Sherlock had him situated, sitting sideways, he took the blanket John was clutching and covered his legs with it, and then moved the chair back to the table to finish whatever task he’d been busying himself with before…only this time, he had a guest tucked safely into the crook of his arm. The little doctor soaked up the physical contact and curled right in, snuggling against the detective’s chest—and while it certainly helped (it helped a great deal, actually) ease his troubled thoughts, John couldn’t help but feel that a key element was missing. Recalling what Sherlock had told him that morning about ‘asking’, he reached out with a slightly hesitant hand and patted the man’s outstretched arm. “Daddy?…” he whispered.

Sherlock’s hand popped up right in front of his face, startling John enough to flinch back…and there, held between two fingers, was his light blue dummy. “Looking for this?” Sherlock asked, and even though the little doctor couldn’t see it, he could hear the smile in his voice.

For the first time since waking up, John smiled back and parted his lips, allowing Sherlock to slip it in place. The little doctor squirmed happily and made himself comfortable… “F’ank’oo,” he mumbled in between sucks.

The detective chuckled, making his chest bounce under John’s cheek. “You’re very welcome; such good manners, now! Wonder what brought that about?...” he asked, his inflection humorous.

John shook his head, giggling along with him, and nuzzled the side of his face against the man’s shirt. “Hmm… ‘unno, ah’yee,” he babbled, peeking up at him with one eye. Sherlock glanced down at the exact same moment and landed a kiss right on top of his closed eyelid, giving John another start as he blinked and jerked his head back. It caught the little off- guard for a moment, and only a moment, before he started giggling again—giggled so hard, in fact, that he made himself snort…and that only set Sherlock off even further. The detective tossed his head back, laughing out loud in the boisterous way that John rarely got the chance to witness, and wrapped both arms around the smaller man and rocked him back and forth in his seat. “God, you’re so…so _cute!_ ”

“Nuh- _uh!_ ” John replied, still tittering from behind his dummy.

“Okay, okay, you’re not ‘cute’,” Sherlock relented, calming himself and taking to patting John on the back to get him to do the same. “You’re not ‘cute’,” he repeated, tucking the little doctor’s forehead into the crook of his neck; “…you’re ‘precious’.”

“Reh-shish?” John asked, his words slurring as he lay back against Sherlock’s shoulder and looked up at him curiously.

“Yes, precious…you’re Da’s ‘precious’,” the man answered, giving John one more good thump on the back before returning to his infernal typing and clacking, all of his focus once again glued to the screen.

John sighed; he supposed it wasn’t reasonable to have the whole of Sherlock’s attention on him at all times, but it had been so lovely while it had lasted…at least he was still being held.

*******

The little doctor must have dozed off again, after having his nap cut short...for the next thing he knew, his eyes were fluttering open and Sherlock was patting his back again. John snuffled and rubbed at his eyes with his fist, then yawned—the sound of which nearly covering up the small clatter of something falling to the floor.

“There you are,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice low and tilting his head to see John’s face. “Tired baby…want to see what Daddy’s been doing?” he asked, sitting back up and clicking to another page enthusiastically.

But he received no reply…perplexed, he leaned back to peer at the little doctor again—he’d just witnessed the boy wake up; there was no way he could be asleep again so quickly!...

Well, he was technically right on that account. John was awake (not fully alert yet, but awake nonetheless), but the majority…okay, all…of his attention was drawn to the floor. Frowning, Sherlock leaned over a little further to see what could possibly be more interesting than what he’d accomplished , and followed the direction of John’s gaze…

And discovered his dummy lying there, near the chair leg.

John finally seemed to remember that Sherlock was still there, and turned to look up at him, still looking a little foggy from being woken a second time. “Da’…” he said sadly, his voice soft around the edges, and reached for it; he didn’t lean or push, or make to grab at it…he only held his arm down, fingers loose, as if expecting it to jump back into his waiting grasp.

“We’ll get that in just a moment, love,” Sherlock said absently, turning back to the table and, likewise, the laptop. “Here, look!...” he continued on, eager to show the little guy his findings.

But John’s gaze remained fixated on one thing, and one thing only…and it was most certainly _not_ that computer. He stared down at the forlorn-looking piece of plastic lying on the floor, his hand still outstretched and waiting; “ _Da’_ ,” he said again, sounding even smaller than he had previously, his eyes welling…

The timbre snapped Sherlock right out of his exuberance as he glanced back down at John and sighed. “Alright, _alright_ ,” he said, unable to keep from giving in (because while he would _never_ verbally admit it, those mothers on the parenting blogs he read were correct every once in a while—every child had a specific face that was irresistible, and John was wearing his right now). “Just, don’t…no more tears right now, darling; we’ve had enough of those for today.”

Reaffixing his grip on John’s waist, Sherlock leaned over and snagged the small plastic handle between two fingers and sat back up; the little doctor’s eyes widened as he began reaching for it immediately, his fingers working in the ‘gimme’ motion…but Sherlock did hand it over straightaway. The detective held it just out of his reach, “No, lad…it’s been on the floor—let Da’ rinse it off first.”

John’s brow furrowed as he built up a Class-A pout, and was just about to reach for it again when the shift in his weight put pressure on his left buttock, and set it throbbing all over again. He gasped sharply and arched his back as both hands flew around to clutch at his backside, with tears springing to his eyes and hissing sobs pushing through clenched teeth. Sherlock watched the scene with a cool sympathy, and then (instead of reminding John that that wouldn’t have happened, had he not been a stubborn little shit) helped John change to a more comfortable position in the dip between his legs. “Spanking: the gift that keeps on giving,” he said knowingly, and began to rub the little doctor’s back in an attempt to soothe, his fingers finding the knots of tension held in the muscles.

John only buried his face back into Sherlock’s chest, trembling with the effort of holding back his tears.

The detective sighed, not sounding dissimilar to his little companion, and looked from the dummy in his hand to the sink, and then back down at the shaky, curled-up figure in his lap, and then at the dummy once more—all right, _fine_ , he admitted it…Sherlock just didn’t have the heart to kick the smaller man out of his lap. He rolled his eyes and reiterated to himself that this was John, _his_ John, and therefore any feelings or actions pertaining to this specific individual were isolated, and certainly did NOT designate him as a bleeding heart.

With that being said, Sherlock took the dummy, stuck it in his own mouth, gave it a few thorough swipes with his tongue to make sure it was clean, and then laid John back in his arm and popped it into his mewling little mouth.

John’s tear-filled eyes popped open in an instant as his lips closed around the silicone stopper; it was still warm, and he could taste the remnants of Sherlock’s tea on it…oh, it was _heavenly_! He looked up at his Daddy’s wavering outline and smiled…such a smile!...and turned to rub his face against the soft, worn flannel shirt that smelled so much like his Da’, the way a Da’ should smell, and made happy noises.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, until John felt the arm cradling his back hug him closer; “You’re just lucky you won the genetic lottery with those blue eyes and button-nose, you little cuddle-thief.”

John chuckled at that, and tilted his head to grin up at Sherlock.

The detective caught that glance and grinned back; “…Can you sit up already and look at what Daddy’s found!” he said, his tone falling somewhere between ‘impatient’ and ‘horribly excited’. And now that John wasn’t distracted with need, his curiosity had been piqued by with discovering what Sherlock had been up to while he’d slept. “Hmm?” he hummed, craning his neck to look back at the screen.

“Here, turn around so you don’t hyperextend your neck, silly,” Sherlock said, and helped him sit back up…now, John was facing the table and straddling his Daddy’s lap, leaning back contently and swinging his feet a bit. A slim, sinewy forearm crossed over his belly, giving him a bit of stability, as he felt a sharp, bony chin come to rest on his shoulder (granted, it was on the good one); John would have been quick to let him know that it wasn’t quite welcome or appreciated…were it not for the warm, smooth cheek that followed and nuzzled against his own. The little doctor settled back instantly, making quiet sucking noises on his dummy and curling his toes while Sherlock clicked on one of the multiple tabs he had open.

Pictures of nursery furniture began to fill the screen, while the bright background forced John to blink—the site was a slapdash job, obviously someone’s hastily put-together personal page; the background was eye-searingly bright, and designed to look like a baby’s quilt with yellow, pink, blue, and white squares, scattered with generic clipart of teddy bears and baby bottles. John raised his eyebrow.

“I know, it’s garish…it also had an appalling eight-bit version of ‘Brahms Lullaby’; that went straight on ‘mute’. But look!...” Sherlock insisted, and continued to scroll down the page.

Now, had John’s mouth not been otherwise occupied, he would have explained to the detective that it wasn’t so much the design of the site as the reason for the arched eyebrow (he’d seen plenty of similar pages, mostly belonging to middle-aged individuals that didn’t have a firm grasp of web-designing), as much as the question of why Sherlock was showing him baby furni—

_‘…Oh.’_

The detective kept scrolling further down the page, past all of what John had assumed was regular furniture (well, we all know what happens when you ‘assume’), and had now reached pictures of people modeling with it: there was a set of photos featuring a lovely crib made form light-coloured wood, with a fully-grown man standing inside it…the bars on the side were high enough that John could barely see the man’s collarbone over the top of them as he grinned at the camera.

John went completely still...even his dummy stopped bobbing as he watched the images scroll by; a changing table was next, with a woman posing on it for scale this time (the way she had her knees up and spread as if waiting for a change caused much more of a stir for all the wrong reasons, admittedly), followed by a series of a giant rocking horse, with the man again. When Sherlock came to the last pair of photos on the page, his knees were bouncing with excitement and, had John not been just as eager, he would have made his bottom’s dismay at the movement known. But as it were, he too was focused on the past image on the page…it was a large, dark wood rocking chair, with both the man and his female counterpart sitting side-by-side comfortably. The only things that set this piece apart from the others, though, were the dimensions; while everything else was made to dwarf the person using it and make them feel genuinely little, the chair itself seemed absolutely normal...except for the extra wide seat. John was instantly flooded with thoughts of sitting in the chair, pillows stuffed around him on either side for support…with Sherlock curled up in his lap, sucking on his thumb sleepily.

The little doctor gaped, causing his dummy to fall from his mouth and land right into the detective’s waiting hand. John tilted his head to stare up at the man who was in turn still staring at the screen, his mouth twisted into a grin that suggested he was _very_ proud of himself and the reaction he’d garnered.

Surely, he couldn’t mean…! No, they lived in a flat, for christ’sakes, there was no room for…!

“I’ve already taken measurements; we can either move your dresser into my room and push your bed flat against the far wall, or we can move _my_ dresser into the back of my closet and turn my bed sideways…no matter which, there would be ample space,” he rattled off in one continuous breath, and nodded his head at the pictures. “Took me quite a bit of searching to find one that was regular height, but still had the required width…everything else was made with giants in mind, apparently.”

John continued to stare at him, open-mouthed, for several moments before looking back at the screen. “But, what’ll we tell…?” he began to protest, even as he struggled to keep the corners of his mouth from creeping up in excitement.

“Tell who? Nana?” Sherlock interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure she’ll be able to figure out why it’s here…give the old girl some credit!”

“I _meant_ anyone else who happened to wander in, you twat,” John snapped, but his humour at the idea was still apparent. “You seem concerned enough about that when I suggested a toy-chest.”

“What do I ever tell anyone? ‘It’s for a case’,” the other man replied, taking on his usual expression of oddly-impatient disdain while staring blankly at the imagined idiot who’d dared to ask. Then, with a blink and slight shake of his head he was back in the present, his gaze reaffixed onto John. “And you…you watch your mouth; Daddy won’t hesitate to wash it out next time!” he fussed, and gave the side of the little doctor’s thigh a smack.

John gasped and flinched, his hand going to the aggrieved area to rub some of the sting out, then pouted…he certainly never got onto Sherlock’s case for swearing when _he_ was little, and was just about to mention as much when the detective’s hand came up with his dummy and popped it right into his open mouth. “…That argument didn’t do you much good last time, did it?” the detective countered

John leaned back, surprised at first, but before he could spit it out and finish his thought…the little doctor realized that he was already sucking away at it, as if it had always belonged there, and knew it was home. Sighing, John simply sat back and gave in…which was just as well; what he had been about to vocalize was slightly worse than ‘twat’, and his bottom still ached enough as it was.

“Stroppy little thing,” Sherlock murmured as he buried his nose into John’s hair and pressed his lips to his temple. “… Can you sit here like a good boy and look at pictures while Daddy makes lunch? Grilled cheese sound good?” he asked, and gave the little hobbit’s tummy a pat.

Well, _no_ , that didn’t sound good—John didn’t want him moving one microscopic iota out of his reach, _thank_ you…but he’d also been made very aware of what happens when he doesn’t listen. So, he made a good show of nodding emphatically, causing the handle of his dummy to make an adorable clicking sound. Sherlock gave him that wide, partly-crooked smile of his; “Good lad,” he said, edging John out of his lap and standing, then moving him to sit in his vacated chair. The detective turned and had yet to take a full stride when a soft whimper floated up from behind him, and he just couldn’t bring himself to ignore it. He turned back and knelt next to the chair, where a terribly sad-looking little hobbit was curled up and watching him with wide, unblinking eyes and a blanket held to his cheek. “Darling, you’ll be _fine_ ,” he rumbled, speaking in low, soothing tones while he reached out to run his fingers through John’s fine hair. “I won’t even leave your sight; all little Jawn has to do is call for me, and I’ll be right back here before you can finish the second syllable.”

John closed his eyes and leaned into the touch for a moment, his small frame visibly relaxing. He opened them and nodded again; “ ‘kay.”

Sherlock smiled and ruffled the little doctor’s hair, causing it to stick up in front. “Good boy,” he said, standing and then scooting the chair closer to the table. “There, look at all the cute piccies Da’ found…find something you like!”

John did as he was told and cast a cursory glance at the screen as Sherlock finally stepped away, but after noticing the other tabs were just more sites catering to ageplayers (some of which he already visited on a regular basis for ideas), he quickly lost interest in favour of watching the other man make the most elaborate grilled cheese sandwiches he’d ever seen. Of course, just plain cheddar on white bread wouldn’t do, _no_ ; Sherlock Holmes had to use a deliciously dark, crusty bread with seven different grains and some sort of pale cheese (that looked as if it should have been thrown out ages ago, but what did he know), and tossed in some of the leftover vegetables from the night before…

The little hobbit watched intently, but it wasn’t until the arouma from all of those mouth-watering ingredients melding together and invaded his senses that he realized just how _ravenous_ he was—

However…

Had John actually followed Sherlock’s instructions and paid closer attention to the pages he’d indicated, he would have found that they were open to more items for sale; specifically, more clothes: onesies, shortalls, t-shirts, footed sleepers…all in _his_ size.

Sherlock had just turned off the burner on the stove and was just cutting John’s sandwich into fourths when he looked over his shoulder. “See anything that suits you, love?” he asked, bringing over both of their plates and setting them down with a small clatter, which effectively broke the magnetic hold that the little doctor’s gaze had on them from the moment the detective had set food on them. He blinked once and shook his head to regain his focus, and then blinked once more up at the towering figure next to him. “…Hmm?”

Steely blue eyes peered down at him, looking bemused, and then the detective reached down to pick up his laptop; “…You didn’t look at any of it, did you,” he said, stating a fact rather than asking a question.

John blushed and shrunk down in his seat. “Uh-oh…not good?”

A particularly expressive, thick eyebrow raised as Sherlock looked back to the screen and, while John watched, a slow, equally expressive smiled curled upon the detective’s lips. “No, no ‘uh-oh’; Jawn was a good boy and told the truth,” he answered, closing the computer with a flourish. “…You’ll just be in for a surprise, then.”

 _‘Surprise?’_ John put his fingers over his dummy, his brow wrinkling while he tried to puzzle out what Sherlock could possibly mean…What-the-hell _else_ could he do to him that he hadn’t already done?!?

Once the computer was set aside, Sherlock settled John up; i.e., he fastened a bib on him, placed a sippy-cup of juice in front of him, and popped his dummy free of his mouth before sliding his plate closer. Any and all concerns that John may or may not have been harbouring were immediately relieved, though, as he picked up his first crisp piece of heaven and bit into the warm, gooey, melted bliss inside; John Watson was not ashamed, not in the slightest, to admit that he had to fight back a moan. It was…no other sandwich, ever…there were, there were just no words, no words to describe how magical this sandwich was. More like a sand-'wish', really.

Sherlock sat quietly off to the side, his own sandwich still poised in front of his waiting mouth as he watched the little doctor’s…um, _reaction_.

John wiped a dribble of melted cheese from his bottom lip and licked it from his hand; “You’re doing all the cooking from now on, mate.”

The detective stared at him blankly for another moment before tearing his eyes away from John’s mouth, and fixating instead on the food in front of him with a snort. “Fat chance; these are ‘special occasion’ instances only.”

“Days that end in ‘Y’ can be special occasions; you only come across those so many times a year.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, I still…” The man paused in midsentence, then turned to glare at the doctor. “…You were being sarcastic, weren’t you?”

John just looked at him innocently and shrugged his shoulders as he buried a giggled in the next bite of his sandwich.

Sherlock rolled his eyes; “How’s your bum?” he asked casually, taking a bite of his own and feeling just a _small_ hint of satisfaction as he watched the good doctor’s cheeks flush in a way that was quite fetching on him.

John felt his cheeks (the ones on his face; he’d already been feeling it on the others for quite some time now) grow warm and he cleared his throat under Sherlock’s scrutiny; “Aches,” he mumbled, and shifted in his seat.

“I know it does,” Sherlock replied with a slight nod as he lifted his thumb to his mouth to lick the melted butter from it. “…You were never spanked ‘bare’ as a child, were you?” he asked, looking at him over his hand.

John glanced down at his plate and occupied himself with peeling the crust off. “Not ever,” he answered, popping it into his mouth. “Well, maybe once or twice, when I was very young…but I can’t trust those memories with one hundred percent certainty. How’d you guess?”

“It wasn’t a ‘guess’; it was an observation,” Sherlock stated. “The expression on your face was of someone who thought they knew what they were in for, and then got blindsided. Usually, you’re a bit trickier to read, but that’s one thing that comes along with being ‘little’…children wear their emotions clearly.”

John slowly raised his eyes, staring straight ahead…was Sherlock Holmes scolding _him_ about being emotionally repressed?!?

“You are, in some ways,” Sherlock said, polishing off the rest of his sandwich and then brushing his hands together to knock off the crumbs. “You can’t sit there and tell me that you’re an open book, John Watson…there’s a whole foreword chapter in there that’s waterlogged, weathered, and nearly illegible,” he paused here and leaned back in his seat to stare at the doctor. “…and I’m going to be the one to restore the pages.”

John haltingly turned his eyes in Sherlock’s direction, met his gaze, and then glanced away. “You…you really scare me at times, man,” he said with a hollow, mirthless laugh. “I was…I mean, this whole thing…I just thought you just wanted a chance to get back at me for all the time-outs and then, I don’t know, bugger me or somethin’.” John looked back down at his plate, now scattered with lumps of torn bread and cheese…his fingers felt greasy.

Sherlock watched him with a wry smile. “Emotions can be frightening, especially the strong ones…that’s why I wanted it done in a safe, if unconventional, setting.” There was a scraping sound as he pushed his chair back, and then rose to go stand next to the smaller man. “…And so far, it’s worked,” he added, wrapping his arm around John’s now-trembling shoulders and leaned down to bury his nose in the fine, sandy-coloured hair; “…As for the ‘buggering’, well…there’s time for that yet,” he finished with a salacious chuckle.

John huffed a laughed. “For an asexual…you’re a huge slut.”

“Demisexual,” Sherlock corrected, standing back up as he ruffled John’s hair and gave his head a playful shove. “And you love it.”

John grinned up at him; “I love _you_ , you giant, curly-haired dick.”

Sherlock turned away to gather his plate and carry it over to the sink, where he turned on the tap to rinse it. “…One more time and Da’ _will_ wash your mouth out,” he warned, looking back over his shoulder at the little doctor. “Has Jawn finished eating?”

John glanced down at his plate and the shredded remnants of an unfortunate fourth, and hesitated…then took the last whole section of his sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth. “Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

Sherlock made a face and scoffed; “That’s _rude_ —just bring me your plate, love…and chew that carefully!”

John pushed back his chair and held his plate in both hands as he carried it over and handed it to his patiently-waiting Daddy…and, just to prove to him that he was going to be on his _best_ behavior (and maybe to make him feel just a bit guilty), the little doctor gave him his best wide-eyed look of innocence, along with his big, stuffed, puffed-out cheeks.

Sherlock shook his head, but the look on his face was warm. He scraped the plate into the trash before putting it into the sink with the rest; “Yes, yes, you’re adorable,” he said, and stepped back so John could stand in front of him while he helped wash his hands. “…But I still don’t feel bad for it.”

John giggled and finished chewing the last of the food packed in his mouth while he watched Sherlock take his hands between his own larger ones and lather them up, droning on and on about proper hand-washing etiquette (John held his tongue against the urge to remind him that he was a _doctor_ ; of course he knew how to wash his fu-…his ‘effin’ hands!). The little doctor tuned the majority out, but the low, resonating hum of Sherlock’s voice at his back was comforting, as were the arms that wrapped around him on either side. John thought back to the feelings of unease when he’d first awoken…that seemed like a lifetime ago, and how could he ever, _ever_ be scared of his Daddy, his Sherlock, in such a way…?

Images from his dream…no, that wasn’t just a dream, that was a nightmare; admit it, John…filled his head again: running through the lonely maze of dark brick and mortar buildings, the feeling of being lost, the, the Sherlock-thing…the shouting, the open maw of a mouth shredding itself and spurting blood, the…

…the roof.

John tilted his head back and stared up at the detective, who was now going on about the types of staph that could be found under human nails…and he smiled. _This_ was his Sherlock, not the other thing that had laughed at him; _this_ was the man that had begged for forgiveness in his own bumbling, awkward way, who had promised…nay, _sworn_ …that he’d never leave again, that he’d rather be gutted and ripped asunder first…

Well, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words to recall at the moment, considering…but still, the sentiment was what counted.

In any case, _this_ was the man that he loved, and the man that loved him back, for whatever course of fate that had brought them together.

Sherlock finally noticed that he had an unusually attentive audience, and had gone silent; “…What?” he asked, perplexed as to why the talk of staph infections had put such a dreamy look on John’s face.

John only smiled and went up on his toes to place a soft kiss on Sherlock’s jaw; “Love you…Daddy.”

The perplexed expression only increased, advancing to the detective’s ‘deer-in-headlights’ look…but he quickly recovered, his face softening as he bent and returned the favour with a kiss to John’s forehead. “I love you, too…have I ever told you about the chemical reactions the body goes through when it falls in ‘love’? First, the…!”

John giggled quietly and closed his eyes, leaning back into that resonating barrel of a chest while that polished voice rolled over him, lulling him back to his 'safe place'.


	9. Chapter Nine- Arts and Crafts

The water from the tap had already begun to grow cold, and both men’s hands had gone pruny by the time John became exasperated enough to give Sherlock’s ribs a playful nudge with his elbow, effectively ending the detective’s spiel. “Alright, _fine_ ,” Sherlock muttered, rubbing the spot while he prepared John another sippy-cup one-handedly. He placed it in grasping hands and waited until the little doctor had his full attention in sucking down mouthful after mouthful of apple juice before leaning down and sticking an invasive finger into the leghole of his nappy, ignoring the indignant squeak it gained him.

Sherlock allowed John to lift his leg and shake him out before hopping/dance away while he glared at the taller man over the rim of his cup; “Still dry…I’m impressed, after that full bottle at naptime. I suspect you’re going to need a new one soon enough, though, if you keep draining cups at that pace,” he said, nodding to the already-half-empty sippy in John’s hands, a smile crawling across his face.

John stared at him blankly for a moment, processing what he’d said, then looked down his nose at his cup…and then looked back up at Sherlock and glared with the intensity of a whole _troop_ of hobbits combined…

Apple juice was considered a natural diuretic.

Sherlock chuckled and collected his laptop, sticking it under one arm while directing John back into the sitting room with the other. “Da’ still has answer a few emails; will Jawn be okay with playing by himself for a bit?” he asked, getting set up on one side of the long table near the window.

John looked up at him and popped his cup from his mouth; “…Do you have to?”he asked, letting on just how disappointed the prospect made him….he was getting awfully accustomed to being the center of attention.

“Just for a bit longer, love,” Sherlock answered, reaching out to ruffle John’s hair. “I meant to do it while you napped, but alas…I became sidetracked.”

John looked down at the floor where the toybox still sat, and quickly glanced around for any sign of his soldiers…but no, the small drawstring bag was nowhere to be seen. He sighed dejectedly; knowing Sherlock, he’d hidden them away in one of the hundreds of small hiding places around the flat…more than likely in one that John had no idea even existed. He caught the detective watching him out of the corner of his eye and blushed at being discovered.

“You’re not going to find them, Master Baggins…pick a different toy,” Sherlock announced, his eyebrow raised, as he opened his computer.

John hung his head and toed at the carpet, pretending to study it in earnest while he stuck his cup back in his mouth and nibbled at the spout. It looked awfully cold and lonely down on the floor, and ‘cold and lonely’ was definitely not what he wanted, nor what he needed right now.

“…Come here, baby.”

Without raising his head, the little doctor turned it slightly to look over at Sherlock; the detective was currently rifling through one of the filing cabinets stacked near the table, and abruptly came with a stack of paper, the big box of crayons, and a pair of scissors. He set all the items across from him, and when he saw that John was only standing there, watching him, he came and retrieved him. “Come sit at the table with Da’ like a big boy,” he said brightly, and snagged the old Union Jack pillow from its reserved place on the couch to deposit on the seat of the chair instead. “Make whatever you’d like, sweetheart, but these,” he said, referring to the scissors and turning serious for a moment, “are for paper only… _blank_ paper. Understand?” John waddled along after him, his eyes glued to the crayons, and nodding at Sherlock’s every word…anything was better than sitting on the floor by himself!

The chair was pulled out, and John sat down carefully…then let out an undeniably content sigh (Sherlock later tried to inform him that he ‘cooed’, but John Watson, even when wearing a nappy and sucking on a dummy, does NOT ‘coo’) when the pillow served to cushion his tender backside. Once settled, Sherlock pushed the chair back up to the table and kissed the top of John’s head affectionately before returning to his seat across the way. The little doctor scrambled for the crayons, surprised by his own excitement, and picked out the black one to get him started…then he froze, hand poised over the paper; the same problem he’d had with the toys was plaguing him still…

Now that he had a crayon in hand and a whole stack of paper to work with…he had absolutely _no_ idea what to draw.

And besides—John wasn’t particularly graced with artistic ability; not outside of the various scrawls and doodles he penned in the margins of his notes, and since he’d taken up his online blog, his opportunities for even that small indulgence had dwindled down to nothing.

He tapped the flat end of the crayon against the paper idly, making faint black crescent marks wherever it landed.

“…Why don’t you draw a racecar?” Sherlock suggested, without looking up.

John made a face and shook his head.

“A rocketship?” Another suggestion; another shake.

“Hmm…a _pirate_ ship? You could even draw yourself as Captain and make Da’ the first mate this time, if you’d like.”

John thought about it, considering…then frowned and blew a raspberry.

“Well, _‘pffffbt’_ you too, then,” Sherlock said, mimicking the noise back at him. “Draw a superhero…I happen to like ‘Ironman’.”

John raised his eyebrow at that; Sherlock most certainly did _not_ “happen to like Ironman”…he happened to ‘like’ a certain olive-skinned, scruffy American actor with warm brown eyes and a shit-eating grin. And the doctor’s first artistic attempt in a long while was _not_ going to be his boyfriend’s walking wet dream.

“No,” John replied flatly.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Sherlock said, with that cheeky half-smile of his popping up. “What about the snarky one with the golden horns…?”

“ _No,_ ” John answered quickly, his tone even more devoid of humour than before as he shot the detective one of the dirtiest looks he could muster.

“Fine, you big _baby_ ,” the other man chided, finally looking up from his screen and focusing on John. “Da’ was only teasing, for gods’sake…no reason to get your nappy in a twist.” Sherlock leaned over and propped his chin in his hand and raised both eyebrows; “Why don’t you draw the topic of your dream?” he suggested, his tone growing genuine again, instead of trying to rile John up.

John’s headshake was instantaneous and vehement. He wanted to forget _that_ particular one as soon as fucking possible.

Sherlock held up his hands, showing John that he had no intention of forcing the matter. “It was only an idea, darling… but I will say this,” he said, lowering them again and looked John squarely in the eye, all seriousness now. “The more prominence you give your mental manifestations, the more control they have over you…making a physical representation that you can visually bend to your will, helps.”

John paused, and stared back. “You…sound like you’ve thought about this before.”

Sherlock gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Is it truly that surprising?” he asked, and went back to his online business.

John thought about that; he thought about all that he knew of Sherlock, just from the time he’d known the man…which, honestly, correlation of time comparable to how well you know someone has no bearing in this case—just look at the starting point for their current relationship; he’d known and lived with Sherlock for a couple of years before finding out about an apparently _huge_ chunk of his life.

But, even taking that into consideration…no, he wasn’t really surprised.

“What do you do with them?” he blurted. Sherlock lifted his eyes and stared. “The…visuals, I mean,” John added, clearing his throat. “What do you do with those?” After all, if that was what Sherlock really did, then he’d never seen any evidence of it…or if he had, then it had been so obviously under his nose that he’d looked it right over.

“Different things,” Sherlock said smoothly, quietly, and though he didn’t realize it just yet, John leaned forward against the table to make sure he heard him. “There were times when I…shot them,” the detective continued, his gaze drifting to a spot over John’s shoulder. The doctor already knew what he was looking at without having to turn. “So…you weren’t just ‘bored’, then,” he said. Sherlock kept staring ahead blankly; “I consider ‘bored’ a blanket term, John…it can have several meanings.”

John made sure to put a mental checkmark next to that statement. “…What else did you do?”

“Oh, it all varied, from what people would consider ‘normal’, all the way to the ‘insane’: I’ve shredded them, buried them, tied them to bricks and thrown them in the river, balled them up and eaten them…” he trailed off and finally looked back at John—the doctor’s expression must have been cause for concern, because he gave a small, dry laugh, with a smile to match in an attempt to lighten the mood. “But mostly…I just burn them.”

**Now** John was surprised, after listening to the multiple um, eccentric list of coping mechanisms. “You bur-?... _really?_ ” Of course, he’d heard of such methods before; people writing down their issues and hindrances, or even taking pictures and other personal effects that represented whatever (or whomever) obstacle that held them back, and then torching the whole lot of it…even Ella had suggested it back in the day.

But all of that was just…it just seemed way too ‘symbolic’ for a man of Sherlock’s taste; therefore, John was taken aback at the admission.

“Yes, ‘really’…there’s a very basic satisfaction in watching something that makes your skin crawl as it blackens and curls into nothing but a pile of ash,” Sherlock replied, the bitter edge to his voice revealing a man that knew exactly what John was thinking, and that the explanation he’d just given was weak, at best.

John decided not to keep questioning the details of the man’s practices, and shifted the topic in another direction; “… Does it work?” he asked, staring down at the faint black marks he’d made on the otherwise-blank paper.

Sherlock hesitated, his hands still poised over the keyboard. “I can’t tell you that it would completely stop the nightmares, John,” he answered honestly. “But I _can_ tell you that, between the burnings, and having ‘little’ time… there have been fewer nights of waking up in a cold sweat with all the breath missing from my lungs.”

John’s head snapped up, startled. “I, uh…I didn’t know, you know, that you…that you had them…” he mumbled, his voice trailing off. And it was true; he’d never _once_ considered that Sherlock had nightmares, as well…the thought was both strangely comforting, with the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in this, as well as terribly upsetting that Sherlock had been suffering in silence.

After watching John work it all out, the detective gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course you didn’t know…we didn’t start sharing a bed regularly until you were well into your established place as ‘Daddy’, and as I said—being ‘little’ helped. That meant fewer night terrors once we were together.”

John chewed his bottom lip, and began to make large, rectangular outlines on the paper in front of him. Hearing that Sherlock had intended to keep it a secret from him made him feel slightly better…the man always kept you from knowing anything unless he _wanted_ you to know…but he still felt a twist of guilt for not noticing the signs. “So, my being ‘Daddy’…it helped?”

“Immensely.”

That seemed to help John’s bruised ego a bit; at least he’d helped, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. “But, it took awhile, yeah? They didn’t go away overnight?” he asked, picking out the yellow crayon and beginning to scribble.

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied, turning his attention back to the screen and clicking away. “It took several months for there to be a noticeable decline in the number of dreams.”

John glanced up from his slightly-more-detailed version of a stick figure with a black triangle coat. “ _Months?_ But we were sleeping together regularly after 3 weeks…how’d you hide it?”

“A combination of circumstances…the most useful of which was learning to recognize what events would eventually trigger them. Once I did, when that creeping feeling of dread would settle over me at nightfall, I would make sure to have an experiment that would require me to stay up long after you retired, _or_ , I would make sure you were ‘satisfied’ fully…fortunately, you’re an incredibly deep sleeper once you’ve been sated.”

There was a _*clack*_ as the crayon dropped from John’s hand; he stared at the other man, wide-eyed and blushing from the bottom of his neck to the roots of his hair. “I…I _what?!_ All those…you mean, all those nights, when we’d go at it twice, all of those were just—?!”

“Because I didn’t want to fall asleep before you, yes,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “But to be fair, John, if I absolutely _must_ find a way to distract myself…bouncing on your cock is my preferred way to do it.”

John felt a smile pulling at the corners of his lips and shook his head in an attempt to hide it; “Just when I think I’ve got you fucking figured out,” he scoffed…and then his eyes slowly widened in a look of abject horror, his fingers coming up to cover his mouth as he realized what he’d just said. “I, I…no, I didn’t mean…!”

Sherlock gave him a look, and just as John thought he was doomed to a mouthful of suds on top of an aching backside…the detective began to laugh, and the heavy air of tension that had settled in the room during their serious conversation started to dissipate. The man raised his arms over his head and stretched, arching backwards over his chair and creating a series of soft, muffled _*pops*_ ; “I’ll let that slide, just this once…and only because I said ‘cock’ first,” he chuckled, then sat up and closed his computer. He gave his face a rub with both hands before propping them both on the table and staring off at some invisible spot off to the left…then switched his gaze back to John, a gleam clearly in his eye. “I think we’ve both earned a break from these heady ‘grown-up’ conversations,” he said, rising from his seat and coming to stand next to the little doctor. “Come along,” he encouraged, lifting John under the arms so he’d stand up, as well. “Come relax with Daddy.”

John, naturally, was visibly relieved when the instant he realized he wasn’t in trouble…but there was no way he could miss that mischievous little gleam. He stood and grasped at Sherlock’s sleeve, albeit cautiously. “No…no trouble?” he asked, slipping back into his role as ‘Jawn’.

“No trouble,” Sherlock assured him as he led him back over to the couch and flopped his lanky body down onto it. John stood idly by with a finger to his mouth, wondering what the detective’s game was, and what possibly could he have in store next?...when that same sneaky, rude finger from before stole its way back into the front of his nappy, causing the little doctor to squeak and lift one leg to shake him off. “ _Out!_...Cold han’s!” he decreed, pushing Sherlock’s bony fingers away.

Sherlock laughed heartily and snagged John around the waist, then pulled him over to lie on top of him. “And people tell me that _I’m_ the dramatic one,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of John’s padded bottom lightly. “You’re not that sensitive to temperature changes, silly…but you _are_ still dry; you’re not holding out to avoid a change, are you?”

John sighed and made himself at home while he was straddling the detective’s torso, then tucked his arms in at his sides and propped his chin against the man’s sternum; “No, Da’,” he replied dreamily…these days, it was a rare feat for the doctor to get a full night’s sleep, let alone a nap on top of it—not to mention being waited on and having every need so completely fulfilled. Hell, it was only for 24 hours, and it was half-over already…the only thing he was actively trying to ‘avoid’ now was another spanking. “Just got’sa strong bladder.”

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes, relaxing for the moment. “Oh, is that the case?...Big word for such a little boy.”

John snorted; “No, it’s no—Oh- _ohh_ ,” he started, his protest cut short by a surprised gasp as the hand rubbing his backside began patting instead and he arched his back, pushing into the touch.

A piercing blue eye cracked partway open to view the scene taking place before it. “Hm, does that feel good to the sore little hobbit-bum?”

“Uh-huh,” John breathed, shifting more weight to his knees for leverage; he didn’t know if Sherlock was purposefully keeping the pats light, or if it was the layer of stuffing in between…more than likely both…but the pressure was just spot- _on_ —he could feel the small shockwaves with each thunk of the detective’s hand, firm enough to feel them tingling over his cheeks and make it slightly painful…but not in a way that he minded terribly. In fact, he was very much enjoying the way each jolt seemed to start at the edges and shoot right to the center of his…

_‘… **Oh.** ’_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows lazily and tilted his head to look down the length of John’s body; “Well, _that_ was fast,” he smirked. “Had I known putting you in a nappy could get you that hard, with that little effort, I would have done it ages ago.”

John grunted in response, his body starting to rock forward slightly with each pat. “J-just— _*ungh*_ —sh-shut, shut _up_ , and d-don’t, don’t sto— _*unnngh!*_ —yeah, that…keep doing _that!_ ” He groaned loudly as Sherlock’s adept fingers began sliding back and forth, up and down, along the crack of his arse, wedging the nappy in between and brushing right over…

“Now, now,” Sherlock purred (yes, _purred_ ), his voice having dropped an octave or so until it was nearly unintelligible. “Is that any way to talk to your Daddy? Do I have to take you over my knee again?…” he continued, and stopped patting just long enough to hook his hands behind John’s thighs and hitch him up a bit further onto his chest, putting them almost face-to-face and lining up… _other_ …sets of their anatomy.

John let out a soft, airy moan; just the mention of another spanking had his heart racing and his whole arse tingling in anticipation again…God, it was so confusing! The first one had reduced him to tears—why would the mere mention of _another_ turn him on so damned much?! “N-no, Daddy…don’t,” he semi-pleaded, his own voice sounding much more breathy than he’d intended.

“…‘Don’t’? You _don’t_ want me to bend you over and _spank_ your naughty little bum?” Sherlock asked thickly, both hands now rubbing John’s nappy in increasingly hard, aggressive strokes…almost as if the man were claiming, in big, bold letters: _‘MINE’_.

“No, no s-sir _rrrrr- **ohhhh**_ …oh, _God!_...”John moaned again, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder and gripping fistfuls of the man’s shirt hard enough to cause several threads to pop loudly; the detective, waiting until John was in mid-sentence, had rolled his lean body upwards against the smaller man’s and, as their midsections met, John felt a very obvious, denim-clad erection rub along his own…and even through the padding (or hell, maybe because of it!), the sensation sent a stomach-clenching wave of arousal over the distracted doctor.

For John, there was nothing else that existed in that moment, nor in the following few…nothing, save for the occasional pants and moans that interrupted the coarse, laboured breathing from the two figures in motion, rutting against one another while the air became thick and heavy.

Just as the first toe-curling tendrils of heat began to creep across his groin and pool back near his balls…the heavy petting stopped completely. John’s head snapped up, his gaping mouth ready to formulate a rather enthusiastic protest, when Sherlock’s hands reappeared…this time, at his hips. There was a brief ripping sound, followed by a sudden change in pressure around his waist as the detective tore the side of his nappy open…and snaked his hand down the back.

“Wha- _aah!_ ” John started to ask what on earth the man thought he was doing back there, when a sharp gasp broke his train of thought…Sherlock was spreading his cheeks harshly and using the pad of a finger to circle his hole.

So, _that’s_ ‘what on earth’ he was doing…

Each sweep of his finger over that sensitive little circle of puckered muscle sent an electric jolt straight to John’s cock and had him panting heavily against Sherlock’s chest, his thighs tensing with the effort of rocking his hips in increasingly erratic motions; he slowly lifted his gaze to meet the detective’s, and moaned out loud at the visage—Sherlock was breathing harshly, his lips parting slightly for each hot puff of air passing through them, cheeks flushed and glowing pink in contrast to his normal alabaster complexion, and his eyes… _oh_ , his _eyes_ …the usual, startling blue was all but completely swallowed by the vast, dark pupils, except for a thin, yet vivid, ring around the edges…

Sherlock looked down at John, the wanton little man’s expression a mirror of his own arousal…and pressed the tip of his finger into that tight, virgin hole a bit harder (as close to entering it as he could be without _actually_ pushing in), just so he could watch his little hobbit’s eyes glaze over with lust and gasp…

“…Who’s Daddy’s good boy?”

Another surge of heat went straight to John’s cock and collected at the head, making it weigh heavily; he was hard, so hard, painfully hard…harder than he could possibly remember—at least, with the restricted bloodflow to his brain. “M-me,” he stammered and dropped his head, his voice tight and strained…his hips began to buck harder, quicker, because oh _God_ , he was getting close, so _fucking_ close, and he was leaking everywhere and the inside of his nappy was getting slick and making it just _that_ much easier to fuck the thick padding and holy _shit_ , there was Sherlock’s finger pushing against him again like he was a goddamned elevator button and it was _glorious_ ; he’d never thought anything going _in_ or anywhere near his arsehole would feel that good and Jesus Christ, he’d been wrong, he’d been so bloody _wrong_ and he was pushing back onto it and babbling words that didn’t make sense and begging, yes, _begging_ Sherlock to just _push it **in** already!!!..._

The detective leaned in right next to the good doctor’s ear, his free hand slithering up John’s back to gather a tangle of downy blonde locks and jerked them back harshly, forcing John to look at him again, because he was _not_ going to miss watching this moment play out on that sinfully gorgeous face. “…Cum for Daddy,” he growled, pressing his finger hard enough to finally breach John’s tight little pucker up to his second knuckle.

John let out a desperate, high-pitched cry at the suddenness of it, as he felt his hole being stretched beyond its limits (all- _right_ , maybe not its ‘limits’...it was his first time, shut _up_ ) and burning like nothing he’d ever felt before…the heat that had been pooling in his lower belly surged again, finally joining the rest at the head of his cock and then it was spilling over, and John would swear that he could feel his heart beat in time with the white-hot ropes of cum that were spurting from him and coating the inside of his nappy.

Sherlock groaned again, low in his chest, at the very site of his little doctor so completely corrupted and debauched, and he had to bite the inside of his lip and struggle with every fibre of his being to keep from losing control over himself…especially as he watched the muscles in John’s back and thighs flex and tense while his feet pushed against the cushions for leverage while he keened; the detective made another indiscernible dark, throaty sound and closed his eyes, letting the smaller man ride out the rest of his release and reveling in the feel of his tight little bumhole flutter and clench around his finger.

After what felt like _far_ too long, yet not nearly long enough, John’s hips finally came to a stuttering halt and he collapsed on top of the detective, breathing heavily and feeling completely wrung-out and boneless…and it felt fucking _incredible_. When he finally worked up the ability to form a coherent sentence, he licked his lips to wet them and gave a dry laugh; “…Sh-sherlock?”

“Hmm?” the man in question hummed, his eyes still closed.

“Can you…get your finger _out_ of my arse now?”

The detective pressed his lips together in a (futile) attempt to stifle his laugh, but he wasn’t quite successful…a choked, half-snorting sound bubbled up from the back of his throat and out his nose, and it only grew worse when he heard John’s exasperated sigh. “You fi- _*ahh!*_ -filthy motherfu- _*ungh!*_ …not so _rough!_ ” he hissed, pushing himself up on his arms to give the man a good glare.

“Oh, get off it,” Sherlock said, and then proceeded to absolutely lose his shit and dissolve into a fit of crazy giggles that lasted for several minutes before he was able to add, “…in a manner of speaking.”

John was hardly as amused.

“It’s just my _finger_ ,” the detective protested, wiggling said digit slightly to prove his point…but even with being as careful as he was, John still arched forward with a slight gasp. Sherlock put his free hand at the small dip of his back to help steady him; “Alright, easy, easy…now, it’s going to feel like, well…a bit like you’re going to shit yourself, but you’re not—just relax.”

John nodded, but remained rigid and tense…not only was he an extremely sensitive individual after he came, but ‘relaxing’, as Sherlock suggested, was downright-fucking- _impossible_ when you felt a certain detective’s two-mile long phalange dragging out of your arsehole while it seemed to be pulling all your insides out along with it. “J-jee- _sus!_ You couldn’t have been bothered to _spit_ on it first?!?” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Sherlock scoffed as he finally worked it free; “There was no blood circulating to my brain, sweetheart…my _apologies_.”

John spasmed and emitted a high(-ly comical)-pitched noise as he felt his own hole flare out, and then clenched his buttocks together quickly because, as _loathe_ as he was to admit it, Sherlock’s previous description of how it was going to feel was surprisingly…accurate. When he was one hundred percent certain that he was _not_ going to soil himself any further than he already had, the doctor finally allowed himself to relax and let his body sag against the detective’s. “Well, it wasn’t,” he stopped to clear his throat, “…it wasn’t all _that_ bad,” he said, a shy smile playing upon his lips.

Sherlock, who’d closed his eyes again and let his head recline on the armrest, now craned his neck to look down at the doctor with one slitted eye. “Oh, ‘it’ wasn’t? And just what part is the ‘it’ that you’re referring…?— _Oh_ ,” he said, opening both eyes now, instantly more alert. With a characteristically smug, satisfied smirk on his face, he met John’s gaze directly; “That was your first…what is the saying again?... ‘I popped your cherry’?”

John tried to hold his ground and stare the man back down…but he failed. Instead, he blushed furiously and laid his head back on Sherlock’s chest, breaking eye contact. “You did NOT ‘pop my cherry’,” he snapped.

“I popped your _black_ cherry.”

John, in the only appropriate course of response, promptly bit Sherlock on the nipple…which was quite a feat in and of itself, considering how thick the man’s shirt was. And if the way the detective squealed was any indicator, then at least it was effective, as well. “Those don’t _work_ like that!” he laughed, and swatted the little doctor’s bottom playfully. “Ask for your cup if you’re thirsty!”

But John was anything but ‘playful’ at the moment; his nerve-endings weren’t the only things that became sensitive after such a volatile release, and all he wanted now was a bit of petting and cuddling, and maybe a little sweet pillowtalk, but he sure as hell wasn’t getting _any_ of that. “You’re…you’re not bein’ very nice,” he said quietly.

Sherlock’s laughter died off quickly as he looked down at the little hobbit curled up on his chest. “Oh, _aw_ ,” he said, lightening up, now that he’d noticed….then, the much-dreaded sniffles began, and he continued on, hurriedly. “Da’ was only teasing!”

“Still not nice,” John whispered, drawing his arms to his chest and tucking them in between the two, and looked away.

The detective sighed and went to wrap the cross little hobbit in a warm hug, with a nice kiss on the top of his head…but John only shook him off and kept his face turned in the other direction.

Once again, Sherlock had to physically bite his lip to stifle a laugh—‘Jawn’ was simply too fucking adorable at times. But really…laughing at the little doctor was what started this pouting business and gotten him in trouble in the first place. “ _Tsk_ , you’re right,” the detective acquiesced as he carefully sat up, with John still straddling his lap; he wrapped an arm around his back to keep him from tumbling backwards. “Daddy was being mean to the baby…here, spank my hand for it!”

John peeked out with one eye, unsure if he was still being teased or not…when he saw Sherlock’s outstretched hand, though, being held in front of his face palm-down and waiting, the little doctor sat up and looked at it curiously, his hair mussed and falling over his forehead. “…Spank Da’ han’?” he asked, sounding both drained from all the… _exertion_ …and a little croaky from his near-tantrum, but he made no move to do so; he kept his arms firmly tucked into place between their midsections.

Sherlock felt his heart flutter at the very sight… _God_ , he loved this man. “Yes, it’s only fair,” he said quietly, pressing his lips to the man’s temple and leaving them there. “I shouldn’t have teased you and hurt your feelings; even Daddies can make mistakes,” he added, and lifted the back of his hand again. “Jawn spank.”

John looked from the proffered hand to the detective’s face, then back again…after a moment’s hesitation, he reached out as if to strike it—but at the last second he jerked his hand back, tucking it away again and turning his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck bashfully.

Sherlock smiled to himself and shook his head, nuzzling his chin against the little doctor; “You won’t get into trouble, wee love…it’s alright, Da’ knows he deserves this one.”

The shy hobbit of a man peeked out again, searching Sherlock’s features in a quick glance-over before slowly reaching out and giving the back of the detective’s broad hand little more than a strong tap with his fingers. Even so, Sherlock emitted a yelp and shook his hand, as if he was trying to shake the sting out, and then held it to his chest…he then stuck out his bottom lip and gave a sniffle, making a terrific show of a well-chastened individual. “Sorry,” he pouted, “…won’t happen again!”

John couldn’t help himself; a tiny smile spread across his lips, brightening his whole face. “Aw, don’t cry, Da’…Jawn not mad,” he said, and leaned forward to give him a soft kiss on the mouth.

Sherlock dropped his act and smiled back, letting his lips linger before parting with a quiet, yet content sigh; “That made it _all_ better,” he hummed, causing John to giggle. “Silly Da’,” he said, and snuggled himself back into the slight curve of the detective’s chest, where he seemed to fit so well, and wiggled his hips to get into a more comfortable position…it wasn’t until then, though, that he realized (with a slight shudder) that he was still, well… _messy_.

Feeling the tremour run through his little doctor, Sherlock sat back so he could get a good look at John’s face; “Are you cold, love?” he asked with mild concern, and rubbed his hands up and down his arms.

John nodded, casting his eyes downwards; “…An’ sticky,” he mumbled as a faint, pinkish-hue bloomed high up on his cheeks and across his nose…it wasn’t that he was embarrassed this time (heavens, they were _far_ past being embarrassed by anything anymore!), but more over the fact that, here he was, sitting in a nappy full of his own cum, with his arsehole still burning slightly and feeling pleasantly stretched-out and used, all while he was still calling Sherlock ‘Da’ and ‘Daddy—it was just so, so…

So goddamned _filthy_ …and without question, one of the hottest things John Watson had ever been a part of.

“I see,” Sherlock replied, and thought John wasn’t looking directly at his face, he didn’t have to be to _hear_ the smirk in his voice. “You were due for a change, anyway; be a good boy and lie still while Da’ fetches everything,” he said, carefully easing John down onto his back and ignoring the little doctor’s furrowed brow for the time being, then stood. “But…don’t go?” John asked, realizing just how needy that made him sound but not caring one damned bit, and reached for Sherlock.

The detective obliged him, but only going so far as bending back down to kiss the tip of his nose; “It’s just like when I made lunch, Master Baggins…I’ll be back before you can miss me.” Just as John opened his mouth to protest that he _already_ missed him, he was abruptly silenced by a familiar mouthful of dummy; he glared up at the now upside-down visage of his Daddy beaming down at him. “Before you can eve miss me!” the man said again, and then stepped out of John’s eyesight.

The little doctor only pouted further, Sherlock’s words having next to no affect on his countenance; with a small grunt, John rolled onto his side and grimaced at the cold, slick feeling of his nappy rubbing against his softening cock…but before he could set one toe on the floor, he felt a large hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place with a firm pressure. “Ah-ha…I thought I heard you fuss,” Sherlock said, successfully getting the little hobbit to lie on his back again.

John could feel a strop coming on, regardless of whether it led to another smacked bottom; “Go wif’ _you!_ ” he pleaded around the lump of plastic covering his mouth. Sherlock sighed dramtically, even heaving his shoulders along with it. “Oh, it’s just so _terrible_ , isn’t it?” he asked, plopping down onto the edge of the seat next to the little doctor and taking both of his hands in between his own, then kissing them. “Every moment I’m away is another wasted opportunity to cuddle!...But wait,” he added, raising one brow and smiling mischievously as he let go of one of John’s hands and leaned over to retrieve something from the floor…John leaned over as well, since his curiosity had now been piqued, and held the fingers that had just been so lovingly kissed over his dummy.

“What if…you had someone to keep you company??” the detective finished, and sat back up...and held out his big, fluffy, orange-and-yellow striped bee. “Would that make it better, if you had Bumble here to talk to?” he asked, smiling and giving the toy a squeeze, causing the crinkly wings to light up in a medley of colours while it emitted a low hum. John’s eyes widened, and he reached for the plush toy...he had to admit, out of all of Sherlock’s toys, _this_ one had always appealed to him on an odd sort-of level; he’d been interested enough when the man pulled it out earlier, but John hadn’t been anywhere near relaxed and ‘little’ enough to play with a stuffed animal and not feel incredibly-fucking-foolish at that time…

Now, though… _now_ he welcomed the chubby, puffy bee with open arms and a bright smile.

“There,” Sherlock said, handing it over and bending down to give John a quick kiss on the cheek, and then stood. “Play nicely!” With that, and the added distraction, the detective slipped from under his hobbit’s radar and managed to not only wash his hands uninterrupted and gather all the necessary supplies from the stash they kept in John’s room, but he also grabbed a moment to check his phone, as well.

John grinned (not quite oblivious to Sherlock’s absence, but ignoring it all the same) and buried his face into the soft, squishy body of the toy, closing himself off into a darkened, cozy world with splashes of hazy colour teasing him from behind his eyelids, while the calming buzz seemed to flow into his ears and nose and throat all at once, filling his head as if it were a physical entity. The little doctor sighed…no wonder the bee was one of Sherlock’s go-to de-stressors’, second only to Gladstone.

John felt the cushion near his feet sink slightly, and he opened one eye to peek out from under a dazzling wing just in time to spy a seated Sherlock pushing his knees apart and opening the front of his soiled nappy; the little doctor instantly felt a cool draft and couldn’t help but shiver and clutch his bee-friend tightly. The detective glanced up and, catching the eye peeping at him, smiled and made a kissing noise in John’s direction. “Yes, Da’ remembers…you don’t like your bits cold,” he said, reaching for a wipe and rubbing it vigorously between his hands to warm it before taking great care in wiping the little doctor clean.

From the very first hint of being touched, John sucked in a quick breath and twitched violently…it seemed that _all_ of his nerve-endings were still raw and singing away down there, and each soft caress was only one notch above sheer torture—Sherlock bit back another laugh and used his elbow to keep John’ thighs spread; “I know, little boy…just lie still, Daddy’s trying to be easy!”

While Sherlock ‘tried’ to be easy, John ‘tried’ to keep still…it didn’t hurt, by any means, so he wasn’t fussing; it was just simply much too intense to try and remain stoic throughout. Therefore, he wriggled around like a worm set on a hook.

“Okay, okay,” Sherlock tutted, rolling the used nappy up and dropping it to the floor to be tossed away later; now, then, while he had John bare and (fairly) compliant, the detective took hold of the little doctor’s leg and turned him to the side, getting a good, up-close look at the condition of his backside.

John held the bee close to his cheek, watching Sherlock with wide eyes while his dummy made small, almost undetectable motions as he sucked on it…he was sure he hadn’t done anything in the last few minutes to warrant a smack (at least, not that he knew of), so it was anyone’s guess as to why the detective looked as if he were coming to a decision…

As he watched, the man that was currently his Daddy pursed his lips and gave a slight nod of his head, and before John could ask ‘What?’, Sherlock had him grasped under the arms and was lifting him with relative ease into a sitting position, then tugging him over his lap.

There was a moment of dumbfounded silence before John’s panic set in, and then tried to scramble away. Upon finding himself pretty well-pinned, though, he resorted to begging while reaching back and trying to cover his extremely vulnerable bum. “W-wait, _wait!_...What did I do?” he cried out, losing his dummy in the process.

Sherlock paused, his hand hovering in mid-air…”What did you—?” he began, repeating the little doctor’s words, then glanced down at the scene taking place… “Oh, love,” he said, realizing his mistake, “… _no_ , you’re not in trouble!” To prove his point, he continued to reach over the smaller man to a place on the floor, next to his feet—and retrieved the bottle of baby lotion he’d placed there when he’d sat down to change him.

“Jawn’s not getting another spanking; in fact, Da’s going to make it feel better.”

John stretched his neck to look over his shoulder and caught a glance at the bottle…then, and _only_ then, did he visibly relax and let his body sag over Sherlock’s lap. A moment later, he thought better of it, and propped himself up on his elbows to see everything that was going on, just in case it was a bluff. “…Better?” he asked.

Sherlock smiled at him reassuringly as he popped the cap on the pale green bottle and squeezed a generous puddle of similarly-coloured , minty-with-a-hint-of-apple-smelling cream into his right hand, then set it aside. “Yes, ‘better’,” he repeated, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on the swell of John’s bum and then dotting the whole area with lotion, before gently rubbing it in.

The little doctor gasped and did a little half-lunge forward, and would have completely rolled right off of the bony lap he was laying on, had it not been for the firm grip Sherlock had around his waist…but not because it was painful; God, _no!_ There was just the right touch of mint extract in the stuff to have an instant cooling effect that set his skin tingling in the most biting, yet satisfying way. “ _Oh!_...Oh?...Ohh _hhmmm_ …” he purred, collapsing on his arms and laying his cheek flush against the couch cushion.

The all(-most)-knowing detective chuckled deeply and let his palm slide over John’s still-faintly-pinkish globes. “Is this all it takes to cheer you up, hm? Just rubbing your bum?...I’ll have to remember that, the next time I start getting snippy responses when I text you at the clinic.”

John’s ears perked up at that; the idea of sitting in his back-corner office, toiling away and stewing over both people and paperwork…when in glides Sherlock wordlessly, shutting and locking the door behind him with hardly a sound, staring at John with those striking eyes and then swooping down to take the doctor over his knee for a quick spanking, followed by plenty of rubbing and petting…

John sighed; well, it wasn’t a _terrible_ idea.

“Not a bad idea at all,” the detective murmured, continuing to slowly rub the little doctor’s irritated flesh from the top of his bottom, all the way down his thighs.

“Not…at…all.”


End file.
